


In Remembrance

by In_a_Quandary



Category: Final Fantasy XIII, Final Fantasy XIII Series, Final Fantasy XIII-2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Doomed Timelines, Drama, Existential Angst, F/M, Inescapable Fate, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 07:08:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6413935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_a_Quandary/pseuds/In_a_Quandary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death. It had claimed Hope countless times throughout history, and she’d witnessed every heart-shattering instance. With Etro’s help, Lightning finally steps in, preventing his murder in Augusta Tower 13AF. But can divine intervention change that which is meant to be? In-game AU. Alternate Timeline!Hope/Lightning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1 - Hero's Charge

**Author's Note:**

> I’ll be taking a break from _Efflorescence_ to write out this tragic plot bunny that suddenly popped into my head while scouring the archives for old HopeRai fics. In FFXIII-2, there is one overarching moral dilemma: the sacrifice of countless timelines for the sake of the true future. Everybody in one of those dead-end timelines is doomed to either death or oblivion. The former especially applies to our beloved Hope, whose importance has made him a target for at least two known assassination attempts.
> 
> Which begs the question: how many alternate Hopes have died throughout the course of those five hundred years? What if Lightning were to try and save one of him? Thus this story was born.
> 
> Set during the events of FFXIII-2, before Serah and Noel enter Academia 400AF and begin correcting the paradox where proto-fal’Cie Adam goes back in time to kill Hope and instigate his own creation.

  


xxx

**Chapter 1 – Hero’s Charge**

xxx

The first time she watched him die, Lightning’s heart stopped.

Like a marionette with its strings cut, Hope crumples to the ground beside his fallen colleagues. A horrible, gurgling noise escapes him as he reaches out with bloodstained fingers towards the boomerang that lies only inches away – his last ditch attempt at rebellion. But he never makes it. Another wave of bullets descends upon him, making him spasm as they shred apart what remains of his battered body. His outstretched hand slackens, and a glaze films over once-vibrant green eyes.

She recoils from the vision, stumbling into a nearby banister. A white fog engulfs her, clouding her mind, choking her lungs. This cannot be real.

Hope cannot be dead.

He is too important, too _precious_ – and not simply because he’d entrenched himself amongst her loved ones, conjuring feelings of warmth and pride whenever she thinks of him. As the leader of the Academy – the governing body that oversaw Cocoon’s resettlement – he truly is his namesake. He is _Hope_ , the living embodiment of their future.

Humanity cannot afford to lose him.

But as the minutes tick on, highlighting the unnatural splay of his limbs, the crimson liquid pooling around his unmoving body, reality sinks in.

Hope is—no. Hope _was_ gone.

This horrifying realisation hits her with the impact of a colliding train at full-throttle, and she collapses onto her knees, winded. Already she feels the hot prickle of tears forming behind her eyes, accompanied by a clogging, burning sensation in her throat.

Gone was the boy she swore to protect, now grown into a man who’d barely scratched the surface of his vast potential before having that snatched away. Never again would he smile that gentle smile of his, or gaze upon another with that kind twinkle in his eyes, or pour over his work with the fervour of true dedication. The future they were working so hard to piece together is now but a hollow dream, marred by the gaping void of his absence.

The heinous irony of the situation isn't lost on her, either. Hope’s adversaries – Augusta Tower’s security beasts and bots – were programmed with the safety of Academy staff in mind, not the opposite. The tower itself is a giant computer, the central processing facility and foundation of their upcoming city, Academia. Its purpose is not only to house data, but also to serve as the birthplace where Hope’s ideas and plans for the future would take shape. 

Yet it had now become his tomb.

No one could’ve predicted that the young, brilliant Academy Director would be felled by his own creation. Thirteen years of gruelling research and hard work and unwavering resolve, snuffed out in mere seconds. He and his team had been slaughtered like helpless prisoners before the firing squad – a violent, ignominious end for the man who had dedicated his whole life to humanity’s survival and progress.

Surely this cannot be the true future.

Gritting her teeth, Lightning shoves aside her rising grief and draws on more of Etro’s power, looking into subsequent events. Two weeks later, Hope is declared officially dead. The Academy holds a memorial service for him, attended by his peers ( _but no loved ones_ , she realises with a pang of sorrow). As the task of retrieving his body is deemed too dangerous, his casket remains empty. It is nothing more than a token tribute, but watching it being lowered into the ground still sends unpleasant chills up her spine.

A new Director is appointed in Hope’s stead, and Augusta Tower placed under lockdown, closed off to all but top-secret investigators. However, their efforts to neutralise the security malfunction prove to be in vain. The rogue artificial intelligence continues its rampage, mowing down anyone who so much as poses a threat. Deciding that the cost of resources – and _lives_ – is too high, the Academy eventually abandons the tower, leaving the gory details of the former Director’s murder to fade away into obscurity.

While ‘Hope Estheim’ becomes as a well-known name in the history datalogs, mankind forges on inexorably without him. Decades pass, giving way into centuries, as more and more settlements dot the surface of Gran Pulse. Technologies evolve, reclaiming their sleek, familiar forms as they once had back on Cocoon. And one by one the spires of Academia rise into the sky, forming an assembly of gleaming sentinels that stand guard over the growing metropolis below.

Four hundred years later, the capital is the pinnacle of mankind’s creation. Its smooth, opalescent architecture is masterfully engineered: a multilayered network of high-rise buildings interlaced with floating roads and plazas. Citizens bustle around on shimmering conveyor belts, their steps energetic as they weave their way through vibrant, immaculate streets. Colourful billboards flash the latest news, and the air buzzes with aerial vehicles flitting to and fro, completing the dynamic atmosphere.

It is a wondrous sight to behold, even from Lightning’s vantage point in Valhalla. For mankind to be able to build something like this makes her truly appreciate how far they have come. For a moment she allows herself to hope, to believe that this is the culmination of her partner’s dreams. That his sacrifice _means_ something—

Then her hopes are dashed, shattering against the screams of the terrified populace. In one night, the beautiful citadel turns into a wasteland of howling Cie’th and mangled corpses. The assault arrives out of nowhere; victims barely get a chance to register the ominous glowing symbols surrounding them before they are swathed in light. Then the light dissipates, leaving grotesque, bloodthirsty monsters in its wake. Those who escape the transmogrification are no more fortunate, becoming prey for former loved ones and strangers alike.

It is like Eden all over again: a bloodbath. By the time the sirens blare to declare a state of emergency, the damage has already escalated to catastrophic levels. Bodies and debris litter the streets, with casualties far outnumbering evacuees. Above the central building hovers the culprit, a great, sentient monolith of shifting gears and metal appendages. It surveys the scene with the mercilessness for which its kind is renowned, indiscriminately gathering men, women and children into its growing legion of undead.

Unfortunately, there is no countermeasure that can be applied to this particular threat. The manmade fal’Cie, created for the purposes of re-levitating Cocoon and protecting humanity, had inexplicably turned traitor. Being a defensive fixture of Academia, it’d had no difficulty in infiltrating the security systems, using them for its own purposes. To wage war against it would be to jeopardise the citadel itself, not to mention the vast and precious databanks stored within. Thus unable to bring the berserk fal’Cie under control, the Academy is forced to abandon its centre of operations once more.

The next century becomes a scramble to solve the problem of Cocoon’s impending fall. Ailed with the loss of the capital, the Academy finds itself shorthanded, both in terms of staff and resources. Utilising whatever means they are left with, the people erect supporting struts around the base of the pillar. But the impact of Cocoon’s descent proves to be far more devastating than anticipated. In its aftermath, nearly all ground-based life is obliterated, leaving the rest to suffocate in crystal dust.

With a jerk of her head, Lightning disengages from the vision, feeling numb. Hope died prematurely – leaving behind no legacy, merely a wish for a better tomorrow – and for what? All his hard work has amounted to _nothing_. His wish remains unfulfilled. The world is still destroyed.

This _cannot_ be the true future. It simply can’t be.

She wracks her mind for an alternative. Something, divine instinct perhaps, tells her that the pivotal point is Hope’s assassination in Augusta Tower. So she opens her psychic link with Etro once more and rewinds back to 13AF. Since her god-gifted farsight extends to seeing small divergences, she sifts through those instead, hoping to find an answer amongst the various permutations of history.

But every time, without fail, Hope would go into that wretched tower and _die_.

She watches one instance of him frantically typing away at a computer terminal, attempting a manual system override. The screen flashes green, indicating his success, and Lightning feels her heart swell with anticipation despite her own misgivings. Similarly hopeful, her erstwhile partner gives a relieved sigh and turns around – only to find a Vespid Soldier zooming towards him, lethal sting raised—

She chokes, switching to another instance. This time, Hope and his colleagues are running across one of the interlinking walkways, trying to reach the central platform. Several strides before they reach their destination, the walkway gives way beneath them, suddenly dematerialising into thin air. They plummet into the abyss below, their screams ringing in her ears—

Shaking with horror, Lightning switches instances again. However, the next vision only comes as a sickening blow to the gut. The blue environment is calm, deceptively so. Unwary of what is to befall him, Hope walks up to the control panel room, pressing his palm against the ID scanner. The door unlocks, and he steps through the entrance. Then, without warning, there is a great flash of red and a greater burst of static. She looks down, seeing smoke rise from his lapels as he convulses on the ground—

She switches. And again. And _again_. But no matter hard she tries to search for a different outcome, she is only met with more images of Hope’s lifeless body, his glassy, unseeing gaze. After the thirteenth repeat of his gruesome demise, she shuts out the visions, unable to watch anymore. Slamming gauntleted palms onto the railing, she lets out a ragged cry, tears streaming down her face.

Why? Why does this have to happen?

Chest tight with anguish, Lightning turns to the deity to whom she’d pledged her eternal loyalty. Although she’d rather not overstep boundaries by asking favours, the Goddess of the Unseen Realm is known to be compassionate, having rescued her and her friends before. Clasping her hands together, Lightning sends a plea into the swirl of their merged consciousness:

“Please, benevolent Etro. Grant me a chance. Let me save him. _Please_.”

Over and over she recites the words, praying for mercy. Silence greets her, and a sinking feeling forms in the pit of her stomach, growing with each passing second. Finally, after several tense minutes, there is a tingle in the back of her head, telling her that the goddess has answered.

Intuition directs her gaze towards the shore. Wreathed in dark streams of chaos energy, an object takes shape upon the sand. As the chaos swells and then ebbs, she finds herself staring at the form of a giant, hollow bulb. Esoteric symbols are carved into the sinuous metal ribs, which frame a core of concentrated golden light.

Relief and gratitude washes over her like a tidal wave. She knows what the object is, and where it will take her. Gathering her energy, she springs from the balcony onto the rooftop of a lower building, then another, making her way down to the beach. A series of leaps later, she is trekking across the sand in the direction of the newly manifested time gate.

“Thank you, my kind Goddess,” she murmurs. Etro sighs in reply, her ethereal breath like a balm against the tumult of Lightning’s mind.

The time gate hums, beckoning. She steps towards it, and the golden light engulfs her.

* * *

After an uneventful journey through the Historia Crux – a inter-dimensional tunnel ringed by huge, floating cogs – Lightning emerges out of the opposite time gate. Her sabatons touch down on the smooth gray floor, and she glances up, taking stock of her surroundings. An ominous red glow radiates from the walls, and the air swarms with eddies of holographic data. She recognises these signs: the security trigger has already been activated.

A fear-filled scream seizes her attention, and she rushes to the walkway’s edge, looking down towards the sound. On the circular platform several floors below stand four people, all sporting the white and yellow uniforms of the Academy. They huddle together protectively, back-to-back, casting wary gazes around them. Various beasts and robots flank them on every side, poised to strike. One of the male Academy staff raises his arm, and her breath catches in her throat when she recognises the boomerang in his hand.

_Hope._

Without hesitation, she dives. _Overture_ , the divine gunblade gifted by Etro upon her knighting, materialises in her right hand. She imbues herself with a Protect spell and executes a few somersaults, bracing for the landing. Her feet slam onto the platform a heartbeat later, sending out a small shockwave from the point of impact. Unscathed, she rises into a combat stance, the magical shield having absorbed the brunt of her fall.

Not expecting the arrival of a newcomer, everyone turns to look at her. The man with the boomerang – and those oh-so-familiar wintergreen eyes, framed by wings of soft silver hair – visibly startles, his expression one of utter disbelief.

“Lightning?” he breathes.

“Get down!” she yells, sensing an incoming attack.

But it is too late. Things seem to slow down to a fraction of a second as their enemies open fire upon them. Although the bullets glance uselessly off her enchanted armour, the outcome is far more grisly for her allies. She watches, aghast, as Hope and his colleagues are ripped apart, their frail human bodies offering no more resistance than paper. He topples backwards, and it’s like experiencing that first vision of his death all over again, only a hundred times more _vividly_ —

A red haze overtakes her.

She throws out her left palm, sparks dancing at her gauntleted fingertips as she casts Thundaga. The spell manifests in a scintillating amalgam of power and light, blasting apart several mobs and sending their scorched remains flying. Stunned by the aftershock, their neighbours become easy prey for her follow-up Blitz, disintegrating in the wake of her spinning slash. 

Snapping her eyes back and forth, Lightning makes a quick assessment of the situation. Her opening assault had decimated a good third of her adversaries. Not that _that_ deterred them. If anything, their aggressiveness ramps up several notches, and they close in on her, murderous intentions plain.

She flicks her wrist, prompting _Overture_ to switch into gun-form. A well-timed backflip takes her out of reach of an advancing Luminous Puma, its jaws snapping on empty air. The cyborg feline lunges for her again, only to stop dead when she plants a bullet in its skull. Incensed by the loss of their pack-mate, the rest of the Pumas let out war-snarls, rallying against her. However, their charge is short-lived. She blows their brains apart in five rapid gunshots, littering the vicinity with shrapnel-coated viscera. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she spots an Orion lunging for her unprotected back. She twists around, catching the militarised unit’s blade-arm against her buckler. A flick of her wrist later, she brings the business end of _Overture’s_ sword-form up against the offending appendage, cleaving it cleanly. The Orion staggers back from the blow, but does not otherwise relent, raising its other limb to shoot dual bolts of lightning at her. She evades by jumping into the air, then unleashes a flurry of slashes, causing her foe to shatter in an exodus of scrap metal.

The Dragoon that engages her next meets the same fate. Its thick armour proves no match for _Overture’s_ magic-enhanced blade, and she reduces it into a heap of broken machinery within seconds. Melee combatants dispatched, she directs her focus onto the remaining ranged units: Zwerg Metrodroids and Vespid Soldiers. One of the former hurls a powerful Blizzara spell at her; she counters with a hastily conjured Shell. The protective wall blunts the incoming icicle blast, which she then shatters with a blow of her sword.

She is forced to leap aside when a tell-tale gust of wind swirls around her feet, erupting into the full-blown vortex of an Aeroga spell. A maelstrom of wind and ice magicks follow, and she weaves through them expertly, closing the distance between herself and the nearest foe: a Vespid Soldier. _Overture_ lashes out in a flash of silver, slicing the mechanical wasp into two. It crashes onto the ground in a metallic clatter, the sound oddly satisfying to her ears.

Three more to go. Sensing her intent, the Vespid Soldiers speed away in opposite directions, trying to divide her attention. A decent strategy, but she too is no stranger to improvisation in combat.

She switches targets, going for the less mobile – and less _intelligent_ – Zwerg Metrodroids. Being grouped together as they are, the knee-height bots would succumb easily to a wide-hitting Blitz. Carving a path through the volley of Blizzara spells they fling at her, she leaps as soon as she is within range, throwing herself into their midst. Then _Overture_ swings in a circular arc, obliterating them all in one strike.

Still three pesky Vespid Soldiers left. The quickest way to end this fight is to snipe them out of the air. But their movements are too erratic; she needs them to stay put, even for just a millisecond—

An idea occurs to her. Anchoring her weight with Gravity and reinforcing her armour with multiple layers of Shell, she switches _Overture_ to gun-form and braces for their attack. To her satisfaction, the Vespid Soldiers take the bait, stopping to cast Aeroga at her stationary form. She grits her teeth as the concentrated wind spells slash at her body, but her feet remain planted and her aim, true. Three gunshots later, the mechanical wasps drop down onto the platform, their lives extinguished.

Battle finally complete, Lightning dispels _Overture_ and rushes to her fallen partner’s side. There is blood everywhere; _so much blood_. It forms a pool around him, staining his uniform crimson. The coppery scent clogs her nostrils, and were it not for her unfortunate familiarity with this kind of situation, she would have gagged.

_Please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead…_

She slips an arm underneath his shoulders and pulls his limp head up against her bosom. Fearing the worst – and praying fervently for the opposite – she presses two fingers into the notch of his throat. A pulse throbs beneath her touch, faint but insistent. At this, she feels relief overcome her, so powerful that it leaves her lightheaded.

“Hope!”

Several seconds pass before he responds. Stirring feebly, he makes a pained gurgle; it is clear that his lungs have been punctured and are now filling up with displaced fluid. If she doesn’t do anything, he would drown in his own blood. Assuming he doesn’t die from exsanguination first.

No, she cannot lose him, not _again_ —

Taking deep breaths, Lightning draws on the discipline of her military training and pushes aside her rising panic. She cannot afford to be anything but _calm_. When her mind finally empties of emotion, she commences the task of mending Hope.

Although emergency treatment is not her forte, she knows how to work with the various magicks at her disposal. Carefully, she conjures an inverted Water spell, siphoning the blood from his lungs while stitching up the perforations with Cura. Then she strings a powerful Curaga spell through his broken body, crudely piecing together bones, organs and muscles in a great flash of heat. Finesse is not the priority here; only when they are out of danger will she detach him from his clothes (which have glued to his skin), unseal his wounds, and remove the bullets lodged inside him.

However, what she doesn’t expect is for his body to reject her efforts. To her horror, he gives a spasm as the last of her healing magic enters him, then goes still.

“No, Hope! Stay with me!”

She presses two fingers against his neck again. The absence of a pulse sends a cold rush of dread through her, jumpstarting her panic. Frantic, she digs her fingertips deeper into his skin, searching, wishing, _hoping_ for a heartbeat that is no longer present.

No, no, _no_! This is not supposed to happen! He cannot die again! She hasn’t come this far only to fail now!

She considers administering CPR, but discards the idea straightaway. There is no guarantee that such a method would revive him, nor is there enough time to experiment with it. No, what she needs now is a _miracle_.

In desperation, she decides to invoke the most potent magic of all: her own life-force. This is an extremely risky venture; one wrong move would result in her burning herself to cinders from the inside out. Even the correct application would leave her thoroughly drained afterward, reducing her capability for further combat.

_But there are some things in life you just do._

Delving deep into her core, she gathers the sparkling energy there, and starts the excruciating process of drawing it out. The pain is beyond anything she’d ever felt, flooding her nerves with molten fire and wrenching an ever-hoarser tide of screams from her throat. But she cannot let it overcome her. So she fights through the haze of agony, pulling on the effervescent magic within her and feeding it bit by bit into Hope’s silent body. Her will becomes a prayer: that his heart would restart and his lungs would fill up, pumping life through him anew.

She prays that he would _live_ again.

For a few seconds, nothing happens. Then there is a loud gasp, and wintergreen eyes snap open. At first, disorientation clouds Hope’s gaze, but it fades away as he focusses on her.

“Light—?” His whisper of her name is tremulous and barely audible, but her heart sings with joy upon hearing it. Never has she heard anything sweeter.

“Hope,” she chokes, blinking back sudden tears. “You’re alive.”

“How? How are you… _here_?”

She shakes her head. “Now’s not the time. I’ll take you somewhere safe, then we can talk.”

“Light, what about—” he rasps stubbornly, but she silences him with a finger against his lips.

“Later. We get out of here first.”

He considers her words for a moment, then gives his assent in a weak but unmistakeable nod.

She doesn’t waste another second. Slipping her free arm underneath his knees, Lightning scoops him up into her arms. Although supporting his larger, lankier form is awkward at first, he settles against her comfortably after a few adjustments. For a man of his height, he is lighter than she expects. Regardless, his weight does not gives her any difficulty, for the title of Etro’s knight confers upon her not only magic but supernatural strength as well.

The loud blare of a siren reaches her ears then, indicating the timeliness of her retreat. It seems that the tower has finally decided to up its security response in light of her intrusion. Sparing one last glance at Hope’s fallen workmates (and watching him do the same), she bends her knees before springing upwards. And just in the nick of time, too; the central platform had suddenly plummeted beneath them.

Her bound carries enough momentum to take them up to the next floor, but no further. So she finds herself scaling the floors in a zigzag pattern, leaping back and forth between the opposite sides of the tower. Her ascent, swift as it is, remains uninterrupted until she arrives at the destination floor. When her greaves find purchase on the platform scant metres from the time gate, a swarm of Vespid Soldiers appear out of nowhere, blocking her way.

She doesn’t pause to think. Tapping into her remaining magical reserves, she calls forth a massive Thundaga. The air fizzles, setting Hope’s and her hair on end as a gargantuan ball of supercharged energy forms and explodes. Numerous blue and white tendrils lash out, razing any unfortunate Vespid Soldier that they comes in contact with. The mechanical wasps drop out of the air in a shower of miniature meteors, raining fire on the floors below.

However, her victory is short-lived. As the static clears, more Vespid Soldiers descend from above to take the place of their demolished fellows. They are also joined by the sturdier forms of several Dragoons, plated arms raised menacingly.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Hasn’t she already had enough to deal with?

Gripping Hope tighter, she breaks out into a sprint. Her airborne foes charge after her in mad pursuit, raining spells and bullets down upon her. She avoids their attacks as best as she can with Hope’s dead weight in her arms, ducking and swerving and scrambling. A particularly vicious wind spell catches her, eliciting a gasp of pain as it slices into the unarmoured parts of her arms and thighs. She ignores it. Reaching the time gate is all that _matters_ —

Her destination glows a welcoming shade of gold. She leaps towards it with her precious cargo in tow, and they vanish in a swell of light.


	2. Chapter 2 - Convalescence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** Hope gets naked in this chapter (though probably not for the reason he'd prefer). Need I say more?

xxx

**Chapter 2 – Convalescence**

xxx

Enshrouded in golden light, Lightning steps out of the time gate onto Valhalla’s shore, a drowsing Hope in her arms.

Without delay, she presses against the shimmering knot in her mind that is Etro’s presence, bringing their consciousness together once more. The goddess offers a warm susurration in greeting, and Lightning heaves a sigh of relief. It appears that Etro is unharmed; Caius had not seized the chance to attack during her brief sojourn to Augusta Tower.

Protecting the Goddess of the Unseen Realm is Lightning’s duty, first and foremost. In Valhalla, she can maintain a constant watch on Etro by virtue of their merged consciousness. However, this psychic link is limited by proximity, becoming dormant whenever she ventures into the aboveworld. Therefore, she cannot leave Valhalla for extended periods of time. Vengeful opportunist that Caius is, he would surely strike down the goddess in her absence.

Fortunately, he did not do so in this instance. With the matter of Etro’s safety attended to, she turns her focus onto Hope, gazing down at him.

Her partner makes for a gruesome sight, his mangled form stark against the pristine backdrop of Valhalla’s shores. Coagulated blood paints thick, dark strokes across his skin and clothes, which have remained surprisingly intact save for several gunshot punctures. His complexion, already pale to begin with, has now acquired a sickly gray pallor. Were it not for the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest, she would think that he’d succumbed to death’s clutches yet again.

Even though she’d emerged from the earlier fray with his life intact, it was far too close a call.

Kneeling, she sets him down on the sand. To her surprise, he rouses from the gentle movement, eyes flicking open.

“Light?” he whispers.

“I’m here, Hope,” she answers with a slight curl of her lips, unable to muster the emotion for a true smile.

His hand rises as though to touch her, trembling with obvious effort. “Is this—are _you_ … real?”

She captures his larger hand with her own and gives a reassuring squeeze. “Yes. All of it is real.” _Much too real_ , she decides with an internal wince. The horrifying moment in which she’d searched for his pulse only to find none is still fresh in her mind.

He blinks, his eyes roving over her face and armour, then at the beautiful, if desolate citadel behind her. “Am I… dead?”

“You—you nearly were,” she cannot help but choke over the statement.

“Where—?”

“Valhalla. The Unseen Realm. I brought you here through a time gate. That’s also how I reached you in the tower.”

“I see,” he murmurs. Then a crease forms between his brows, and his mouth tightens. “What about… the others?”

He must be referring to his colleagues, which she had neglected in their desperate flight. She bows her head solemnly. “I’m sorry.”

Hope lets out a shuddering breath, anguish clear in his expression. “They were... just my escorts... for the day. Alex, Julia, Brendan… All I recall... are their names. I never even… got to know them.”

When she squeezes his hand in an attempt at comfort, he continues, “That attack... was meant for me… wasn’t it? Which means... if they hadn’t come along… because I needed _protection_ ,” he grits out the word, twisting it into a bitter, ironic echo of itself, “they might still be—”

“Don’t go there, Hope,” she overrides him. “Being the only one left isn’t your fault. If anything, it’s mine, because I didn’t—” she cuts herself off with a shake of her head, feeling the cold, unpleasant sensation of guilt wash over her.

Is she responsible for their deaths? She’d been so focussed on Hope that she hadn’t spared a thought for his colleagues. As urgent and dangerous as the situation was, she had little choice but to flee immediately after tending to him. Nevertheless, the fact remains that she was there, and _able_. Able to heal them, possibly even rescue one of them. Able to take action.

Only she hadn’t.

The gentle press of fingertips against her palm brings her out of her dark, spiralling thoughts. “No. I’m sure you did… what you could.” Although Hope’s voice is only a feeble rasp at the moment, she can sense the power of his underlying conviction. “All we can do now… is make sure... they are remembered.

“Also,” he adds, fixing her with a gaze so intense that she forgets to breathe for a moment, “Thank you, Light. For saving me. I’m really glad… that you came.” Then he shifts his shoulders, drawing his elbows back as though to get up. “But now… I have to—”

He freezes, letting out a gasp of pain. To forestall any further struggle on his part, Lightning grasps his shoulder and pushes him back down. While his determination is admirable, he would only hurt himself by overexerting his partially mended body. “Hold still. I’m not done healing you yet.”

This prompts him to crinkle his brows in confusion, to which she explains, “I only patched you up halfway; there wasn’t enough time to do a proper job.”

Comprehension clicks, settling over his features. “There are still bullets inside me?”

“Yes. I’ll have to undo your wounds to get to them. It’s better if you’re not awake for this, so I’m going to knock you out.” She pinches her lips in an apologetic frown. “Sorry.”

In response, Hope turns the full weight of his gaze upon her. His wintergreen eyes shine with trust, absolute and unquestioning. It is a look that his younger self had given her numerous times, testifying to the strength and closeness of their bond. So that part of him – of _them_ – hasn’t changed. Even now, after so many years of separation, he _believes_ in her.

This realisation wreaks havoc upon her heart, tugging apart the captive organ in a myriad painful directions even as it suffuses her with warmth. She fares no better when he speaks, his words laden with the same enthralling emotion as his eyes:

“I understand. Go on.”

Throat too constricted to reply, she nods. Then, in a movement swifter than his human reflexes can follow, she delivers a precise blow to his temple. His eyes roll back in their sockets as their lids descend over them, and he slumps back against the sand. Relieved of her partner’s gaze – and the heart-wrenching _vulnerability_ within it – Lightning finally sighs, letting out the breath she didn’t realise she was holding.

She sets herself to work straightaway. Firstly, she dispels her vambraces. While the elbow spikes serve her well in combat, they only present a hazard here. She doesn’t need to run the risk of accidentally gutting him. Or his clothes, which are to remain as intact as possible. He’ll have to re-wear them, after all. Providing a fresh set is outside the realm of her limited hospitality. (She can mend – and dematerialise – her own armour with magic, but the ability to conjure garments out of thin air isn’t one that Etro had bestowed upon her.)

Then her fingers find the buckles of his shoulder and waist storage pouch slings, unclasping them in several deft movements. She takes a moment to rummage through the contents. If Hope is as resourceful as she’d anticipated, there would be survival supplies amongst them.

To her relief, she is proven correct. Her search turns up two Potions, several ration bars, a roll of gauze, a one-time dispenser shot of adrenaline, a keycard, a spare communicator, and a palm-sized gadget she cannot make heads or tails of. The gauze isn’t necessary, as properly applied magic would leave behind no trace of injury. She does set aside a Potion though; it would provide a much needed boost to his recovery.

Now, onto the task of stripping down his upper body. She starts by untucking and unravelling his tie, tossing it aside unceremoniously. The yellow handkerchief adorning his left wrist is treated with more reverence; she recognises it from their journey together as l’Cie. (How sentimental of him to have kept it all this time.)

Then she tugs his gloves off before proceeding to the fastenings of his jacket, which she undos as well as the buttons of the shirt underneath. While the jacket is easily removed, the shirt had glued to his skin at the sites of his bullet wounds, meaning that she has to tug it away with more force than she’d prefer. As expected, this tears open his half-mended wounds, causing blood to ooze afresh.

What she requires at this stage are surgical tools.

 _Overture_ is too large and unwieldy to serve as a scalpel, but the ornamental bayonet affixed to it should suffice. There are no substitutes for tweezers however, so she’d have to exercise some creativity with her magic. Perhaps that would’ve been a challenge when she’d first gained her powers, but she is far more experienced now. With the need to remain in prime fighting condition – and countless days, weeks or possibly months to wile away until Caius’ next attack – she’d found honing and experimenting with her magical skills an effective pastime. 

Materialising her holy blade, Lightning detaches the bayonet component, which she sterilises with a few douses of Fire. Improvised scalpel in hand, she then runs Libra through him, which maps out the locations of the embedded bullets. Using this to guide the direction of her incisions, she carefully exposes the metal pellets one by one. A simple Magnet spell extracts them, then she follows up with Cura, knitting the damaged tissues back together.

Her earlier diagnosis had located bullets in Hope’s groin and thighs as well, the shots having – to his great fortune – missed a major artery or two. It seems that she has no choice but to strip him naked. Given the severity of his injuries, this was already a forgone conclusion, but she’d hoped to preserve what little remained of his modesty.

Oh well. Now is neither the time nor place for delicate sensibilities. It isn’t as if Hope can be embarrassed in his unconscious state, anyway. And she’d seen her fair share of nude male bodies back in her pre-l’Cie days, though it was within the context of one-night-stands rather than the medical emergency she and Hope have found themselves in. (Those memories feel so distant now, as though they form part of someone else’s life.)

Unstrapping his boots – the only article of Hope’s clothing that had managed to escape unscathed – she yanks them off his legs and tosses them aside. Then she undresses his bottom half in as clinical a manner as she can muster, removing his belt, pants and briefs. After a succession of Libra, Aero, Magnet and Cura spells, she settles back on her haunches, examining her handiwork. The last of his wounds are now sealed off, without so much as a scar to show for the trauma they’d undergone.

She reaches for the vial of Potion she’d set aside and uncaps it. Slipping an arm underneath Hope’s shoulders to bring his head up, she then tips the vibrant green liquid into his mouth. A gentle massage of his throat triggers his swallowing reflex, easing it down. The restorative must be a particularly fast-acting variant; within seconds colour returns to his skin, giving him a much healthier glow.

This leaves her to the next task: cleaning up.

It is fortunate that the time gate had manifested on the beach, providing a nearby water source for their impromptu treatment session. Grabbing the closest scrap of fabric – his shirt – she hefts Hope into her arms and heads for the waves. Her sabatons sink into the damp sand as she submerges them bit by bit, until his collarbone is just skimming above the surface. Then she unhooks the arm around his knees and, using his shirt as a makeshift rag, begins washing him.

The next few minutes turn out to be quite… _odd_ , rousing a tumult of emotion both foreign and unanticipated. Now that the urgency of the situation has passed, Lightning is finding it more and more difficult to hold onto her mask of detachment. Here she is, wiping down the naked body of her former charge. The act can only be described as intimate, made more so by his willing state of unconsciousness. While Lightning is no stranger to physical intimacy itself, being this close to someone she actually cares about (other than Serah) is outside the realm of her experience.

It discomfits and enthralls her at the same time.

Did Hope realise the magnitude of the power he’d given her? In repose, he is vulnerable, subject to anything she would inflict upon him. Fully trusting that she would take care of him. That she would not take advantage.

But can she trust herself?

Perhaps she’d gone too long without human contact. Perhaps she is so starved for company that she would gorge herself the instant it was presented to her. Surely this must be the reason for her loss of control. For her eyes have invariably begun to wander, unable to resist the lure of his visage. And the longer she stares at him, the more apparent one fact becomes:

Hope is _beautiful_.

Oh, he had a pretty face – leaning towards effeminate, really – as a fourteen-year-old. Now fully grown, his features are still familiar, but infinitely more _captivating_. Adulthood had trimmed the plumpness from his cheeks, leaving behind an angular, defined jaw. Long, dark lashes fan out from his eyelids, which conceal the brilliant green irises underneath. His finely arched brows converge into a straight, elegant nose, and below that resides his lips, full and tantalising.

She stops herself in the middle of spelling away her gloves. The urge to run her bare fingertips across those lips is overwhelming; for some inexplicable reason, she must find out if they are as soft as they look. To compromise, she combs through his hair instead, working out the matted blood until the ash-white colour is all that remains.)

Her gaze dips lower, onto the column of his throat. She studies the swell of his Adam’s apple, the notch of his clavicle where the twin tendons of his neck meet. They sweep out to broad shoulders, and it occurs to her how very _appealing_ his form is. This is emphasised by his slim physique, which outlines bone and lean muscle in sharp relief against his moon-pale skin.

Since the crystal-clear water obscures nothing, her eyes cannot help but follow the trail of exposed flesh under the surface. She notes how his torso tapers to a trim waist and narrow hips, and her attention catches on the dark silver hairs scattered across his belly. They lead her further down, to _that_ which lay nestled between his legs—

She averts her gaze, feeling her cheeks grow hot. Her hesitation lasts for all of three seconds before she turns her eyes back and downwards, as though magnetised to the sight.

Hope is beautiful, and very definitely _male_.

The thought fizzles through her like lightning, setting her nerves afire and short-circuiting her mental processes. How many eons has it been since she’d felt this electric pull towards another human being, this _awareness_ that the man in her arms is a (very attractive) member of the opposite sex? For one mindless moment, she allows herself to revel in their nearness, consumed by the heady, primal feelings that _he_ evokes—

Then she jerks her head away, overcome with shame. What she is doing is _wrong_ , plain and simple. There is no excuse for the vulgarity of her actions. In essence, she has objectified him, using his image to satiate her own sexual deprivation while he is unable to consent.

The loneliness must have finally gotten to her.

 _Get a fucking grip, Farron. You’re supposed to be taking care of him, not eyeing him like a piece of meat. I’m sure he didn’t ask for this. If things were the other way ‘round, would_ you _?_

She sobers at the self-directed question. How _would_ she feel if the situation were reversed: Hope tending to her unconscious, naked body instead? He’d never take advantage, she is sure of that. But would he succumb to the same temptation as she had? (That is, of course, assuming Hope _is_ attracted to women in the first place. Her observations of his romantically void life have not indicated one way or another.) Would he let his gaze linger on her breasts, the curve of her hips, the hidden region between her thighs? Would he attempt to stem the rising tide of lust, or would he be overcome by it, continuing to feast on the expanse of flesh that lay so enticingly before him—

Why does she even want to know?

She shakes her head, disgusted at herself. Perhaps by claiming that she wouldn't mind if he did the same in her shoes, it would make her actions permissible, lessening her guilt. How incredibly self-serving of her.

Through it all, one thing had changed irrevocably in her perspective: Hope is no longer a boy. Watching him persevere through the past thirteen years had made this apparent to her. To her admiration (and that of many others), he’d not only managed to carve out a niche for his various talents, but also found the courage and resilience to forge onwards even as his loved ones left him behind. However, there is nothing like being confronted with the solid, tangible evidence of his adult body to drive the fact of his maturity home.

She returns her gaze to his face, noticing for the first time the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. Physically, Hope is older than her now. He may still be the same person at heart, but time had opened up a gulf between them, forcing him to grow up without her.

This realisation fills her with sadness.

_Yes, I made the decision to stay here and guard Etro rather than go back. It may be pointless to regret, but I can’t help but wish that I were with you then._

Grasping his knees, she lifts Hope out of the water and treks back to the shore. After laying him down, she detaches her feather skirt and drapes it over his midsection to protect his modesty. One peep-show was enough; it would be beyond reprehensible of her to indulge a second time.

Then she gathers up his discarded garments and returns to the ocean, intent on scrubbing out the bloodstains. A flurry of Aero spells and some good old-fashioned elbow grease later, she is wringing out decidedly less red articles of clothing, which she leaves to dry on the sand.

Ablution complete, she settles beside her slumbering partner, reclaiming her vigil over him. Now, all she has to do is to wait for him to wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh, Lightning is kinda naughty here, perving on poor, unconscious Hope. Well, apart from Caius (who doesn't count by virtue of being her immortal archenemy) and Noel (with whom she'd only had a very brief interaction), she hasn't seen another human being in forever. Of course, guilt-prone creature that she is, she beats herself up for it afterwards.
> 
> Reviews are appreciated, as always. :-)


	3. Chapter 3 – Safe Subversion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** I know, it’s been forever. I can give you the usual array of excuses – life happened, I got distracted by other things and lost interest etc. – but I think you’d rather just read. Nevertheless, I want to make it clear that I still have every intention of finishing this story. Even if it ends up being dragged out over a much longer timeframe than it has any right to be.
> 
> This chapter is especially dialogue-heavy; our favourite couple need to discuss some plot mechanics, rediscover each other and examine their motivations and goals. Other than that, no warnings apply.

xxx

**Chapter 3 – Safe Subversion**

xxx

The sun had nearly completed its journey to the opposite horizon when Hope rouses. His breathing loses its rhythmic pattern as he stirs, making a faint rustling noise against the sand.

Lightning cannot be gladder to break the silence. “Ah, you’re finally up.”

He shifts in the direction of her voice, swiping a wrist across his eyes. Wintergreen irises peer up at her blearily. “L-Light?”

“You’ve been out for a few hours. How are you feeling?”

He deliberates over her question for a moment, rubbing his eyes a few more times for good measure. “Not bad, actually.”

“Are you in any pain?” she persists.

His hand drifts across his chest and abdomen, fingertips tracing the smooth, unblemished skin that was disfigured by bullet wounds mere hours ago. “There’s a little soreness here and there, but nothing major.”

She gives a satisfied nod. “That’s good to hear. Your clothes are over there,” she adds, gesturing over to his left. “I washed them and left them out to dry. They’re a bit torn up, but they’ll do.”

“My clothes? _All_ of them?” He looks between the assortment of spread-out garments and himself, noticing the feather skirt draped over his midsection for the first time. “Did you see… _everything_?” he asks with a grimace, pink blossoming on his cheeks.

His embarrassment triggers her own, and she feels warmth creep up her face as well. “Yes.” Then, with as much nonchalance as she can muster – dismissive wave of the hand included – she continues, “Couldn’t be helped, sorry.”

Hope flushes redder at the remark, and a multitude of emotions break out on his face, each warring for dominance. After several seconds of opening and closing his mouth as though struggling for words, he finally mutters, “I hope the sight didn’t disturb you too much.”

His strange statement makes her halt in her mental tracks. What did he mean by that? Surely he cannot be seeking appeasement of his vanity. (With looks like his, there is no doubt he would’ve received his fair share of favourable attention. Not to mention that she – the critical, oft-callous ex-soldier – is the farthest thing from a compliment dispensary.) No, a clinical assessment seems more likely. She decides to go with the latter – it’s the safer, more literal route.

“You were pretty beat up. But you should look as good as new, now. I made sure not to leave any scars.”

“Thank you,” he replies, running his fingers across his torso again before fixing sincere green eyes upon her. “You did a wonderful job.”

Disarmed by his praise, she manages a grunt in response. “I’ll leave you to get changed.” She rises to her feet and walks a few paces away, granting him some semblance of privacy.

“Will do,” she hears him call out.

Several minutes later, he is done. She turns around at the sound of approaching footfalls, and sees Hope fully dressed in his less-than-immaculate outfit. Try as she might, she cannot tear her eyes away from the numerous punctures scored into his clothes (even though she’s already seen them before, knows that they’re there). Unable to be mended, the ugly tears in the fabric only serve as a reminder of her near-failure.

He follows her sombre gaze. “They’ve seen better days, that’s for sure,” he remarks wryly, tugging on the mangled breast of his jacket with one hand. The other thrusts her feather skirt back at her. “Here you are.”

She reclaims the garment with a nod, reattaching it to her hip. “Not your fault. And there’re no wardrobes here,” she returns in an attempt to mirror his wryness, “otherwise I’d offer you a change of clothes.”

“That’s fine,” Hope shrugs. Then he flicks his gaze up and down her figure, taking in her armoured appearance. “Though it begs the question of where you acquired that shiny metal getup.”

“A gift from Etro, for becoming her knight.”

“Etro’s knight, huh? That would explain a few things.”

Recognising the mounting curiosity in her partner’s eyes, Lightning braces herself for the upcoming onslaught of questions. To her surprise, he doesn’t immediately press her for answers. Instead, he turns his attention onto their surroundings.

“So, this is Valhalla.” His gaze sweeps across the cityscape before them, lingering on the most prominent and elaborately decorated landmark: the Temple of the Goddess.

“Yes.”

“I’m still trying to convince myself that this isn’t a dream,” he says, giving himself a surreptitious pinch for effect. “Everything seems so surreal.”

“I can understand that,” she replies. “Being here, in a place you’ve probably only heard of in folklore…”

“The Unseen Realm. While I figured it’d have to exist in some form or manner, I never imagined that I’d see it with my own eyes.”

“There’s not much beyond what you can see, really,” she admits, having long since exhausted the novelty of discovering the mythical underworld. “It’s quite barren. There’s no plant life aside turf and wall creepers, but a small population of Eidolons and monsters do reside here. Mostly, there’s the chaos. Souls moving back and forth in a never-ending cycle of death and rebirth.”

Hope turns back to her, his brows knitted in confusion. “What about the goddess Etro? Isn’t this her domain?”

“Yes. The goddess does reside here, but only in spirit,” she explains. “Due to the events surrounding my arrival, she has been weakened so much that she can no longer take corporeal form. So it falls to me to protect her and the order of things.”

Comprehension clicks, instilling Hope with new vigour. “That’s why we weren’t able to find you,” he reasons aloud, wearing a trail into the sand before her as he paces back and forth. “You’ve been in Valhalla the whole time! Outside time and space, in a dimension mere mortals could never reach. I really was a fool, thinking that I could—” he cuts himself off and stops abruptly, shaking his head. “Never mind. If I may ask, how did you come to be here in the first place?”

It seems that his curiosity can no longer be denied. “It’s a bit of a story,” she tells him, “and it begins with our final battle in Orphan’s Cradle. When we faced off Barthandelus, we lost and became Cie’th. It was only for a brief moment; somehow, we were restored to our l’Cie selves so that we could continue the fight. Then we defeated Orphan, completing our Focus and turning into crystal. But later we woke, and our l’Cie brands had disappeared.

Letting her hand drift over the centre of her breastplate, above where the thrice-damned mark had used to be, Lightning continues:

“Neither of these were the work of some random miracle, you realise? In our desperation, we marched right into destiny’s hands, praying that we could somehow transcend our doomed fate through sheer force of will. We sure as hell had no backup plan.” She cannot help but give an ironic scoff at that. “And we succeeded, but only because Etro intervened on our behalf. She recognised our prayer and delivered us from eternal damnation – both as Cie’th _and_ as crystal statues.

“But her actions came at a price. In doing what she did, the balance of Chaos was upset, which created distortions in the timeline and opened the gates of Valhalla wide. I was sucked in. Then, as though some invisible force was guiding me, I found myself before the goddess’ throne.” Her gaze drifts to the spectacular building that had caught Hope’s attention earlier, before settling back on him. “She whispered into my mind, and I learned the truth about what had happened.”

Her former charge’s eyes had grown wider and wider throughout the course of her explanation; she can see the mental cogs behind them turning furiously. “I had wondered about all of that,” he says, tapping a gloved finger against his chin. “Our stint as Cie’th was so brief that I ended up doubting my own experience. I do remember being swallowed up by darkness and losing my sense of self, but I’d ultimately chalked that up to a hallucination. After all, the transformation into Cie’th is supposedly irreversible, right? So I came to the conclusion that it hadn’t happened in the first place.”

He starts pacing again, gesticulating as he speaks. “The fact that we returned to our human selves after turning into crystal made even less sense. When Vanille and Fang emerged from crystal stasis prior to the Purge, it was because they’d been given a new Focus. They were still l’Cie. Being l’Cie was an inescapable fate – or so we assumed. I guess only divine intervention is capable of liberating us.

“But this same intervention is also what took you away. The general consensus was that you had crystallised together with Fang and Vanille in the pillar. Despite this, Serah maintained that she saw your smile on the day we awoke on Pulse. But no one else had any recollection of that event, so we dismissed her claim. Maybe she’d wanted to see you so badly that she dreamed you up? Still, I had my doubts. Something about the whole thing struck me as odd.”

He comes to a stop, his back facing her. “Now it’s clear. Only Serah remembered the truth. If you were indeed erased from time from that point forward, it would follow that our memories were accordingly altered. Just like how Serah and Noel resolved the paradox in the timeline and returned to a different version of myself.”

Glad that he had cottoned on so quickly, Lightning lets out a soft sigh. “You got that right.”

Hope tilts his head, glancing at her over his shoulder. His eyes are downcast, hidden under the veil of his thick, dark eyelashes. “I know it’s pointless to ask since the answer’s obvious, but… Have you absolutely no way of returning?”

The tentative, forlorn way in which he spoke elicits a painful lurch in her chest – so visceral is the urge to reassure him. “I would’ve gone back in a heartbeat if I could,” she says in a rush, shaking her head apologetically. “But I’m stuck here, quite possibly for good. Even if there’s a way to step into any era or place from here, I can’t do so on a whim. My duty is to serve Etro, now and forever.”

Her explanation makes him stiffen, his arms snapping straight at his sides. “Becoming Etro’s servant… Was that a choice the goddess forced upon you?” His voice is low, taut with restrained emotion. “Or one you made yourself?”

She swallows, hesitating. While she doubts her answer is one he would want to hear, she refuses to withhold the truth. “ _I_ made the choice.”

At this, Hope whirls around to face her, and his expression takes her aback. Anguish peels his lips back from his teeth, ignites the fire behind the all-too-transparent windows of his eyes. “ _Why_?”

“Because I saw them all, the sins we made as l’Cie,” Lightning proclaims, consumed with a sudden need to justify herself. Seemingly of their own accord, her feet shift to assume a wide-legged, defensive stance. “The countless lives we destroyed, the society we upheaved, the timeline we threw into chaos. It’s all because we tried to defy fate. We got our wish, but at what price? We brought the world down to its knees, and we need to answer for it. So this is our atonement.”

The more she reveals, the more distasteful Hope seems to find her answer. “You mean _your_ atonement?” he grits out, brows drawn low and chin jutting forward in unmistakeable anger. “So it falls upon you and you alone to bear all our burdens? To indenture yourself to a crippled goddess, out of time and reach, while we pass the rest of our lives never knowing what happened to you?”

Something inside her snaps. “Is this what it is, Hope? You’re angry that I’ve chosen to be here?”

“Yes!” The confirmation escapes him in a sharp hiss, and his hands ball into fists. “All this time I’d believed you were a victim of circumstance, trapped here against your will! To learn instead that this was your _choice_ – a noble attempt to acquit our many sins in lonely, everlasting exile—”

“How dare you judge me?” she interjects, her own temper flaring up in the face of his reproach. “You’re no different! All those nights you’ve spent slaving away in the labs, overdosing on caffeine, shouldering far too many responsibilities in order to rebuild the world… Am I to believe you did all that for purely altruistic reasons? No, you’re just as deep in penance as I am!”

Hope’s response is to draw himself up to his full height and fold his arms, meeting Lightning’s gaze in challenge. She tries and fails to superimpose the memory of his younger self’s childish fury; from his higher, adult vantage point, his glare is far more imposing.

“I’m not questioning your entitlement to penance.” Having regained a veneer of control, his voice is more even now, though the undercurrent of tension remains very much present. “Etro knows I’m an awful offender in that regard. However, I didn’t make the conscious choice to lock myself away, knowing that there are loved ones waiting for my return.”

She flinches; _that_ soul-crushing truth is no easier to stomach however many times she confronts it. While she can ascribe a higher, divine purpose to the rationale behind her decision, the reality of the matter is that she had abandoned her family and friends to fend for themselves.

“It was necessary! I had no better options!”

“Really?” He cocks a skeptical silver brow at her. “Was refusing not an option?” The corner of his mouth twists, and his words take on a mocking quality. “Did the opportunity to atone fall so conveniently into your lap that you just couldn’t resist? You’d think that after everything we’d experienced as l’Cie, you’d be – oh, I don’t know, _less willing_ perhaps? – to jump straight into eternal servitude.”

Her first instinct is to close the two-metre gap between them and backhand him across the face. The sheer audacity of him, vilifying her for a decision that was made under extreme duress—! To be fair, she had only presented the ugly, self-incriminating side of her argument. It is this knowledge that stays her shaking hand, redirecting her frustration to her vocal chords instead.

“It would’ve been selfish – _beyond selfish_ – to refuse! Do you understand what is at stake? If I weren’t here to protect the goddess, Caius will kill her. Without the goddess’s stabilising presence, the threads of space and time will unravel completely. The world as we know it will end! Between that and my freedom, I’d say my freedom is a small sacrifice to make.” She lets out a forceful sigh. Having suddenly spent all of her angry momentum, she now feels bone-tired. “I will not be responsible for destroying the world, not again.”

Hope’s expression undergoes a radical transformation as her words sink in, mouth slackening and wintergreen eyes going wide. “Forfeit your own future, otherwise the world will have no future,” he breathes. Unfurling his arms, he exposes his wrists to her in an conciliatory gesture. “It was unfair for the goddess to give you that ultimatum. Why insist on personal culpability when she as good as forced your hand?”

The look he gives her – ablaze with sympathy and horror and fierce, enthralling consternation on her behalf – soothes her ruffled feathers. “In the end, I still volunteered myself,” Lightning concedes. “Maybe I was just the right person at the right place at the right time. There was no one else to take up the role, and I was perfectly positioned to receive it. Like you said, I could’ve refused. But I didn’t.”

“You _couldn’t_ have refused,” her partner counters with a vehement shake of his head. “Not with the threat of doomsday riding upon your decision. Were I in your shoes, I would’ve done the same. Oh Light, I take it all back. I’m so, _so_ sorry.”

He looks so aghast that she feels compelled to placate him, to let him know she bears no grudge against accusations slung in ignorance. “You didn’t have the whole picture,” she says fairly. “Believe me, Hope, I didn’t come to that decision easily. Even knowing the alternative was unacceptable, I didn’t want to give you up. Not you. Not Serah or Sazh. Not even that overgrown lug…”

Hope squeezes his eyes shut. “We—we suffered without you.”

“I know. I watched you all.”

“We couldn’t even mourn you properly.” The words spill from him as though a dam had been broken. “There was always that seed of doubt, that niggling hope that things weren’t what they seemed. Fang and Vanille were locked inside the pillar – that much was indisputable fact. But we weren’t so sure about you. We had no closure. It wasn’t until a long time later that answers began to manifest. In the meantime, I couldn’t bring myself to accept that you were gone for good.”

His wintergreen eyes snap open, and in that moment they are the very picture of fractured glass, remembered pain showing through the cracks.

“It was so hard in the beginning. When we were together – when I had you by my side – I believed I could do anything. But you disappeared. And since I no longer had my l’Cie magic, I was a frail, helpless child again. After the fal’Cie deactivated, our world fell into crisis. We had no light, and food and energy were in short supply for a while. Who better to blame than the l’Cie who caused it all? So they targeted me.

“Location-wise, I made for easy pickings. My father and I had returned to Palumpolum, so I remained in the public eye. Keeping my head down forestalled the brunt of the attacks, and I eventually learned to defend myself. But early on, I would just give in, let them take out their anger and misery on me.”

Unable to speak past the sudden, painful lump in her throat, Lightning nods.

She had tracked Hope’s early years with avid, maternal interest, clenching her fists in impotent rage while various schoolyard thugs and opportunists accosted him. It had wreaked havoc upon her heart to watch as he shrank away from his approaching assailants, fear and resignation filling his young, too-weary eyes. Then the blows fell, impressing upon his small body the punishment meant for all of them, and she had choked on furious, bitter tears.

Back then, he was at his most vulnerable, in most dire need of her protection. But where was she? Rooted here in Valhalla, unable to go to his aid. For all that she vowed to keep him safe, she couldn’t have failed more thoroughly, indeed.

Intent on making the rest of his story known to her, Hope goes on. “Things became easier after my father founded the Academy,” he exposits. “It was a safe haven, a place where people would set aside their differences for a common purpose: rebuilding humanity without gods. This was where I sought to redeem myself. I took part in the humanitarian effort, joined the research team to help resolve the energy shortage. People could see for themselves that I was sincere, that I was taking steps to right the wrongs I’ve committed.

“Of course, it helped that I was hardworking and had a natural gift for engineering. Others came to respect me in a surprisingly short space of time. Before I knew it, I was taking on ever larger projects and responsibilities.”

Lightning nods again. Hope’s meteoric rise through the Academy ranks was awe-inspiring, a welcome respite from what little remained of his bleak childhood. He was a true prodigy, earning the title of Academy Director at the tender age of nineteen. But ambition had never been his driving force. Through it all, she’d seen the desperation in his actions, not unlike a drowning man reaching out towards the nearest handhold to keep his head above water, and this becomes manifest with his next words:

“Ultimately, my work at the Academy was – still _is_ – a source of distraction, a coping mechanism. I was hopelessly mired in the past, in the unattainable wish that we could all be together again. By immersing myself in my work, I was doing something good and meaningful, instead of wallowing in what-if’s and what-could-be’s. I had to move forward. I had to _forget_. Because if I couldn’t forget, I’d have to face the horrible truth: that I was alone.”

He blinks, a furtive attempt to relieve the sudden moisture that had gathered at the corners of his eyes. When he speaks again, his voice is hollow and unsteady with grief.

“Everyone I had ever loved was taken away from me. First my mother, then Fang and Vanille, then you. Sazh and his son never returned from a recon trip; even their aircraft vanished with them. Snow got tired of waiting around for you, then Serah disappeared too.

“The only one who made your absences bearable was my father. We’d become really close throughout the years. Then I lost him too. What with the reconstruction, economic unrest and temporal phenomena going on, it never occurred to me that we would be separated by something as mundane as illness."

Ostensibly distressed, Hope raises a hand to his face, as though he can hide behind it the agony that contorts his features.

“It was terminal bone cancer. Like me, he worked to the point of distraction, and it crept up on him – on _both_ of us – until it was too late. The best medical facility couldn’t do more than offer palliative care. He passed away two years ago.

“In the end, I was only one left behind.”

There is a minute’s pause in which Hope fights to recompose himself, swiping at his eyes and taking great gulps to calm his ragged breath. In the meantime, Lightning finds herself adrift in reminiscence.

She had borne witness to Hope’s growing despair, watched him shatter and try to piece the broken fragments back together. Each time one of them disappeared, he would shut himself away for weeks, pouring over his research papers with unnatural fervour. Bags formed under his eyes and clothes hung looser on his already slim frame, testament to the meals that he kept returning untouched.

She had also been there – the silent, invisible intruder – when father and son shared their final moments together. Against the sterile, whitewashed backdrop of the hospital room, they had made for stark contrasts: Hope in his too-bright Academy uniform and Bartholomew with the grey pallor of encroaching death. Hope had wept openly, tears trickling down his cheeks as he clutched his father’s almost-translucent hand in his own. Meanwhile, Bartholomew had gazed upon his son with fond pride, whispering words of encouragement until his breath eventually stuttered to nothing.

“I know the fault lies with my own reticence,” Hope resumes in a less shaky voice, dispelling that heartbreaking image, “but I couldn’t bring myself to build any deep, lasting relationships with the new people I’ve met. Perhaps I was too detached, isolated by experiences normal people could hardly begin to imagine. Perhaps the fear of losing yet another loved one held me back.

“There was no lack of opportunity; I was always surrounded by peers. Many of them would’ve leapt to be my friend, my confidante, and – if I may be so immodest to say so – even my lover. But I always turned them down.”

At this, Lightning is unable to prevent the disapproving purse of her lips. During the interim years, she had hoped he would find a companion with whom to share his burdens, perhaps find some measure of happiness. But Hope remained stubbornly single, deflecting with polite words advances from women _and_ men alike. He was the consummate workaholic, casting aside the usual human trappings with the single-mindedness of one hell bent on escaping his own reality.

Ignoring her frown, Hope continues with his tale. “If it weren’t for the the Oracle Drive,” he reveals, an odd light coming into his eyes, “I would’ve sunk further and further into depression. While you and the others were snatched away to fulfill some greater cosmic destiny, I had to crawl through time like any other ordinary person.

“The Oracle Drive bridged that otherwise impassable gulf between us. Being able to see you again, even in a faraway, untouchable vision, it made me feel like I was one minuscule step closer to you. It renewed my determination to go on. It gave me hope.”

Again, Lightning disassociates for a moment to revisit the past, when the Oracle Drive had been discovered. It was a momentous breakthrough, breathing life into Hope’s ennui. With zeal bordering on obsession, he’d subjected the device to various analyses, and replayed the recordings over and over, dissecting every frame and nuance. The inordinate amount of time he had spent in this pursuit did not go unnoticed, but his colleagues had tactfully refrained from comment. They had known it was his lifeline to sanity.

All in all, Hope’s recountal solidifies what she already knows, puts into painfully clear perspective the extent of his suffering. Divorced from his immediate vicinity, she’d had a glancing, if not unsympathetic appreciation of the troubles he’d undergone. But now that she is confronted with the tangible proof of his discontent, it has only made her transgression – of leaving him to go it alone – greater, all the more awful.

Heart heavy with regret, Lightning finally speaks. “Out of us all, you suffered the most, endured the worst of hardships. Hope, I can’t describe how sorry I am that you had to go through all that.”

To her bewilderment, Hope shakes his silver head, waving off her apology. “Well, it’s made me a stronger person—” he begins, downplaying his situation with the humility for which he is renowned, but Lightning overrides him.

“Don’t give me that. I don’t want your platitudes.” She fixes him with a beady stare, commanding his attention. “Tell me the truth, Hope. Do you blame me for what happened?”

Taken aback by the abruptness of her question, her partner looks down and shuffles his feet. “I would be lying if I said no,” he admits with a sigh, clearly hesitant to voice his answer. “I acknowledge that you’ve had just as little control over the situation as I did. But there’s no denying you’re the catalyst for Snow’s and Serah’s disappearance. With you so far removed from the picture, it’s made you an easy target on which to pin the blame. Some of it, at least.”

The entirety of his confession was rife with self-recrimination. For some reason unfathomable to her, he is apologetic for placing fault upon her, a perfectly justifiable response under his circumstances. It serves to balloon her already expansive guilt further, until she is bursting with the need to make amends and the sheer, abject futility of it.

“I guess ’sorry’ doesn’t even come close to cutting it, huh?” she sighs.

A knot forms between silver brows, and his lips flatten into a line. “What are you trying to say, Light? I’m not asking for recompense—”

“You may as well be,” she interrupts him. “But even if I want to make it up to you—” here, she lays her hand over her breast, conveying to him the wholeheartedness of her sincerity, “—and believe me, I do – I don’t know if I ever can.”

He is silent for several long, pregnant seconds. “You _can_ ,” he says at last, capturing her gaze with his own. Green as emerald fire, his eyes blaze with concentrated longing ( _for me_ , she acknowledges, awestruck), making her breath catch in her chest. “Come back with me. Come _home_.”

Taking a slow, measured step towards her, Hope extends his right hand in invitation. For a fleeting second, Lightning allows herself the fantasy of accepting his offer. Her vision grows misty as the grey shores of Valhalla dissolve, then coalesce into a sunlit beachfront. Weathered wooden planks form the pier beneath her feet, and gulls circle in the vibrant blue sky overhead. The salty fragrance of the ocean tickles her nostrils, and the lively sounds of people bustling about fill the air together with Serah’s delighted laughter. Through it all, Hope’s presence remains constant, the look he gives her warm and steady and welcoming.

 _Home._ Such a beautiful, distant concept.

Then the second expires, shattering the fantasy and slamming her back into cold, hard reality.

Retreating two steps back for the one Hope had advanced, Lightning turns away. Loath as she is to execute it, handing out rejection is unavoidable. But putting physical distance between herself and her unfortunate recipient can perhaps soften the blow, make the fatal words easier to say.

“You know I cannot.”

In her peripheral vision, she watches as Hope reels back as though struck, his hand drooping back to his side. She ignores her heart’s reaction to this, the rebellious organ hurling itself against her ribcage in protest.

“Are contracts with deities forever binding?” His voice is quiet, subdued.

“In this case, yes,” she replies, still not facing him for fear that her resolve would give out at the sight of his pain. “My soul is inextricably entwined with Etro’s. I am the guardian of her legacy, so I must remain by her side for the rest of time.”

“You sound like you’ve already resigned yourself to your fate. The Lightning I knew wouldn’t have given up so easily,” he challenges her, but it is a fragile, half-hearted attempt, broken by the pleading in his tone.

Perhaps in another hypothetical lifetime, where she remains unencumbered by sin too immense to atone for, Lightning would have risen to this provocation. As things stand, his words only stir a deep sadness within her.

“I don’t know if I am still that same person. It’s been an awfully long time.”

“Longer than thirteen years?” he asks, inflection high. She flicks her gaze back to him, seeing wintergreen eyes gone wide with surprise. “You don’t look like you’ve aged a day since I last saw you.”

“Time doesn’t flow the same way in Valhalla, if it can be said to flow at all. Honestly, I’ve lost count of the years since I’ve been here. Were I to guess, I’d say somewhere in the order of centuries.”

“ _Centuries_?” he repeats, flabbergasted.

“Yes, I’m positively ancient,” she says with a sardonic twist of her mouth. “I gotta admit it’s been a lonely few hundred years. Company’s in short supply over here. Eidolons and monsters don’t exactly make for the best conversationalists.”

The ludicrousness of her statement prompts him to expel a noisy breath, shake his head. “Look at us. Each with our self-imposed, excessive penances.”

Satisfied that they had reached an understanding of sorts, she favours him with a faint almost-smile. “Like two peas in a pod, huh?”

Hope lets out a short bark of laughter, but it is devoid of any real mirth. “We _are_ partners; there's gotta be some common ground between us.” Then his expression rearranges into solemnness once more. “Light.”

With only a split second to register the sudden _intent_ in his eyes, she finds herself caught off-guard as he surges forward and enfolds her into his arms. The sensation of his body against hers, solid and reassuring and so very _warm_ , renders her shock-still. By virtue of divine constitution, she is immune to temperature extremes. But the contrast between this and her cold metal armour is so jarring, it drives away all coherent thought.

Oblivious to her stupefaction, Hope tucks his head against her shoulder. “I _will_ find a way to bring you back,” he whispers into her ear, each word laden with steely resolve.

A shudder zips through her, both at his hot breath and the ferocity of his declaration. Wits now thoroughly scattered, she flounders for repossession of her mental faculties.

“Don’t go making promises you can’t keep, now,” she blurts out, trying for nonchalance. However, the admonishment falls short, coming out with more gentleness than she had intended.

Hope pays her remark no heed, simply pulling her closer. The heat between them intensifies and mellows, pouring liquid light into the very foundations of her being. “Light, I’ve missed you so much.”

Upon hearing these impassioned words, something inside her tightens and unravels. For the first time in years untold, Lightning is experiencing the real, living affection of another human being. It forms a balm upon her heart, slowly but surely healing the wound left by too many lifetimes of enforced solitude.

Feeling tears well up in her eyes, she lifts her arms and wraps them around her partner, returning his embrace at long last.

“Me too, Hope. _Me too_.”


	4. Chapter 4 – Misdirection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** gory character death ahead.

xxx

**Chapter 4 – Misdirection**

xxx

“You know, I never expected to be here,” pipes up Hope from his seated position on Lightning’s left. His finger traces idle patterns on her feather skirt, which is splayed on the sand between them. “In Valhalla. With you.”

“Neither have I,” Lightning agrees. She lets her gaze linger on her companion for a while longer, then redirects it to the grey sky.

Although the day had well and truly transitioned into nighttime, the sky remains backlit by the unsetting sun, suspended in monochromatic twilight. In the Unseen Realm, there is no true sunset or sunrise. The night horizon holds the sun captive in a state of inertia – one of many unnatural phenomena that attests to the timelessness of the place.

Setting aside this idle observation, Lightning continues her reflection upon the last half hour or so. After their emotional discourse earlier, she and Hope had trekked along the coastline. Eventually they settled on the ground, aimless energy spent. As each remained adrift in their own thoughts, only a handful of words were exchanged between them.

For Lightning, the memory of their recent embrace had taken precedence in her mind’s wanderings.

Being held by Hope – and holding him in return – had been an immense comfort, in more ways than one. After the initial shock subsided, she had found herself increasingly immersed in the act. His scent – spicy musk and saltwater and the persistent, coppery trace of blood that she hadn’t quite succeeded in washing off – was just as visceral as the flesh and bone under her touch. It had lent credence to the solidarity of his presence, engraved upon her senses the fact that he was truly _here_.

Hope was _real_. Not some hallucinatory parody of her lonely desires.

(Never again will she take human company for granted. Least of all, _his_.)

Courtesy of his added height and breadth – yet another reminder of his _adult_ status – Hope’s arms had enclosed her fully. This, combined with his unrestrained emotion towards her, had awakened within Lightning the long-forgotten feeling of being protected and cherished. She was _precious_ to him. The tightness of his grip, the plaintive way in which he nuzzled her temple made that plain. Although Lightning had not, by any means, hankered for affection in her old life, she could not deny how full it made her feel, like her heart was filled to capacity.

So she had clung to her partner for far longer than etiquette deemed appropriate. There had been no objection on Hope’s part; he appeared to revel in her presence as much as she did in his. It was with great reluctance that she finally disengaged from him. Hope had looked just as reluctant to let go, his fingers lingering on her forearms in an unmistakeable caress.

In that moment, a wild idea had occurred to her.

She could keep Hope here.

He could stay indefinitely, as one neither aged nor required sustenance in the temporal stasis of Valhalla. Were he inclined, he could take up the mantle of knighthood and join her in the battle against Caius, even tip the balance in their favour. Surely the Goddess wouldn’t refuse a second defender of the realm?

Most enticingly of all, he would keep her company. No longer must she brave the endless ages alone—

Then forbearance overrode impulse. Hope did not belong here. Lonely as it may have been, there was a life still awaiting him in the overworld. There were still more opportunities for him to do good for humanity back there, and find, if not happiness, at least purpose in the process.

Who was she to deprive him of that, let alone condemn him to her same forlorn fate?

All too aware of the selfish turn of her thoughts, Lightning had wrenched herself away from Hope. His now-bereft arms still suspended in the motion of clutching her, he had turned wide, startled eyes towards her. The loss in his expression was too awful to bear, so she had started in the opposite direction, beckoning that he follow.

If Hope held any grievances about their abrupt parting, he had yet to show it. In fact, his thoughts seem to be running on a different course altogether.

“You said you’d watched us all,” he says, breaking the silence once more and returning Lightning’s attention to the present. “Are the legends true, then? Can you see all of time from here?”

“Yes, I can see past _and_ future,” she confirms. “However, I need to access the Goddess’s power in order to do so.”

“This means that I won’t be able to tap into the timestream at will, correct?” Having halted in its exploration of her feather skirt, his finger is now pressing into a spot with more force than necessary. “A shame.”

She shifts to face him fully, which lifts the skirt away from his immediate reach and further abuse. “Hope, do you _want_ to see the future?”

Eagerness gleams in his wintergreen eyes before he lowers them, unsubverted by his attempt at a nonchalant shrug. Thirteen years on, and Hope is still as transparent as he’d been as a child.

“It’s generally inadvisable to do so, isn’t it? Self-fulfilling prophecy and all that.”

“But you are curious?” she persists.

“Who wouldn’t be?” comes his rhetorical reply.

She huffs, exasperated by his prevarication. “Hope, it’s only natural that you want to know what happens next. You don’t have to lay out your reasons to me.”

He responds with a self-deprecating smile. “You got me there,” he capitulates. “The Oracle Drive has whetted my appetite for foresight, I confess.”

“Insofar as I know, I don’t have the ability to share my visions, but… The Goddess may grant you a brief transference of powers. Her presence is strongest at her throne.” She tilts her head in the direction of the Temple of the Goddess.

He follows her cue. A furrow forms between his brows as he stares at the faraway, towering landmark. “But how _will_ we get there?”

Lightning purses her lips, contemplating their commuting options for a moment. Her typical means – of leaping from rooftop to rooftop – is a no-go. Hope’s human body does not possess the necessary constitution to execute the jumps, let alone withstand the magnitude of G-force subject upon him even were she to drag him along. And now that he is fully conscious, she doubts he would want to be ferried around bridal-style again.

 _Or like a sack of potatoes for that matter_ , she thinks with a wry grimace.

No, she would spare them both the indignity and summon her loyal steed instead. Surely Odin wouldn’t begrudge them this?

She rises to her feet. This prompts Hope to do the same, dusting sand off his pants.

“Stand back.”

Hope glances at her, features open with surprise and anticipation, and obeys.

Pressing her left palm against her breast, Lightning draws out a rose-shaped crystal, as she first did an entire lifetime ago in the Vile Peaks. _Overture_ , ever her faithful blade, materialises in her right hand. A toss and a clatter of metal impacting glass later, the air becomes supercharged. This coalesces into a flurry of pink summoning glyphs, from which a majestic armoured horse emerges.

With a resounding neigh, he leaps into the open, scattering rose petals and tendrils of static in his wake. Gilt hooves touch down on the shore, and Lightning finds herself face to face with four glowing, otherworldly eyes.

A familiar, electrified pressure builds at the back of Lightning’s head, indicating that the mystical being had addressed her.

Facilitated by the psychic link between Eidolon and Master, Odin’s voice – like that of the Goddess’ – is a direct projection of intent into her consciousness. This form of communication is pure and primal, without language. To reconcile it at the level of human comprehension, Lightning’s mind automatically translates it into words she can understand.

 _You called, my liege?_ Odin follows this pronouncement with a toss of his great metallic head, pawing at the sand.

 _I want you to take me and Hope to the Temple of the Goddess_ , she commands.

_As you wish._

Without further instruction, Odin folds his knees, allowing them easy access to his back. Lightning does not waste another second, dispelling _Overture_ and clambering aboard. She extends her hand to Hope, who, unlike her, is slow to respond. Nostalgia mists over his wintergreen eyes as they take in the scene of Lightning mounted upon her Eidolon.

“Brings back memories…”

Then he steps forward and grasps her outstretched hand, propelling himself into the seat behind her. His arms fasten around her midsection as Odin rises, ready.

The Eidolon lifts his right foot and brings it back down in a powerful, energised stomp. Manifested by the subsequent ripple of magic, hundred upon thousands of crystalline shards shimmer in the air around them. The shards disperse, then reassemble into a perfect parabolic arc that extends from Odin’s feet towards the Temple of the Goddess. Despite its insubstantial appearance, the newly formed bridge does not give way when the Eidolon rests a hoof on its razor-thin surface.

Satisfied, Odin leaps forward and begins their ascent. Were either of his passengers to make the mistake of looking down, they would be treated to the disconcerting view of galloping atop nothing. Vicious winds slash past as they climb higher and higher, and the cityscape’s sharp edges and peaks melt away into a grey blur beneath them.

Within minutes, the trio reach their destination: the roofless balcony of the Temple’s topmost floor. Patting down her flyaway hair, Lightning dismounts onto the weathered stone tiles. No less windblown, Hope follows suit behind her. Odin alone stays his ground, awaiting their return with all the patience of a dutiful steed.

She and Hope make their way to the pinnacle of the Temple. Through antiqued hallways they walk, their footfalls thunderous in the dusty silence. A veritable wasteland of ruined structures flanks their progress; time’s ravages do not distinguish between the dilapidated railings, broken pillars and crumbling steps that lay around them.

Eventually, they arrive at a large, open chamber. There are no furnishings save one: a magnificent throne near the opposite wall. Comprised of hewn blue crystal several metres high, it glows with a soft, inner radiance.

Lightning throws out her arm, signalling Hope to stop. He complies, wintergreen eyes alight with undisguised curiosity. Then, with slow, reverent steps, she approaches the throne. The closer she gets, the thinner the mental barriers between herself and Etro become, until she is naught but a stray pebble in the golden sea of the Goddess’ consciousness.

Before the throne, Lightning drops down to one knee and presses her palm against its base. The glassy surface, contrary to automatic assumption, is warm to the touch. Adopting the mien of humble supplicant, Lightning offers up her prayer:

“Benevolent Etro, I seek your favour once more. Please grant Hope the ability to see into time.”

Like a repeat of the Goddess’ response – or lack thereof – to Lightning’s initial plea to save Hope, silence prevails for the next few minutes. Then, there is a palpable shift in the atmosphere. High above her, the clouds part to allow a stray beam through, blanketing Lightning and the throne in a layer of incandescent white. This is accompanied by the descent of a gossamer weight upon her mind – the psychic equivalent of a door-knock.

Acceding to its request for permission, Lightning yields.

The pebble that embodies her identity sinks into the depths as the golden waves of Etro’s consciousness rise, engulfing her whole. A warm, pleasant tingle suffuses her body, and she feels a sense of dissociation wash over her. Their union established, Lightning relaxes, replete with the Goddess’ familiar, welcome essence.

As though guided by invisible strings, her limbs straighten, pulling her upright before reorientating her in Hope’s direction. These same strings also draw her eyelids shut. When she reopens them several heartbeats later, she is looking at Hope not through her own lenses of storm-blue, but Mywnn’s luminous sapphire.

“ _Come._ ”

Delivered through Lightning’s voice, the command reverberates like a choir, resonant with the raw, ancient power of divinity behind it.

Across the chamber, Hope startles. His expression is one of awe – and no small amount of fear. Nevertheless, he is quick to obey, closing the distance between them in long-legged strides. As he nears her, she can feel the nervous anticipation emanating from him, made evident by the rigidity of his stance.

Under Etro’s instruction, Lightning spells away the fittings of her right forearm, exposing it from elbow to fingertip. Then she raises this same arm and takes a purposeful step towards Hope. In contrast, he retreats half a step back before catching himself, ostensibly resisting the instinct to flee.

“ _Trust me, Hope._ ”

Wintergreen eyes snap wide. Even through the multiple layers of hers and Etro’s merged voice, he hears _her_. With a swallow that makes his Adam’s apple bob noticeably, Hope nods.

She touches her bare fingertips to his forehead, which elicits a small, not-quite-suppressed flinch from him. A jolt sizzles through her arm as Etro uses her body as a live conduit, weaving all three of their consciousness together.

Activating her prophetic sight, the Goddess rewinds to the event of Hope’s assassination. Here, she presses the figurative play button. One after the other, the images flood their interlocked minds.

They witness Lightning’s intervention from mere hours ago. Firstly, there was her emergence into the red haze of the security-tripped Augusta Tower. This was followed by the gunning down of the four Academy personnel, Hope amongst them. Next came Lightning’s trouncing victory against the rogue AI’s minions, then her desperate – and fortunately successful – attempt to revive Hope.

In her preoccupation, she had not noticed a fifth casualty.

Two floors below them scurried about a petite young woman. Her blonde, pixie-cut hair dishevelled from exertion, she rushed from room to room, typing into a handheld device all the while. Ultimately, her efforts proved futile. Fright parted her lips as a Luminous Puma materialised out of the data eddies before her, blocking her path. Frantic, she turned around, only to find herself sandwiched between the feline and an approaching Orion.

The scream had barely left her throat when the militarised unit raised its blade-arm, decapitating her in a clean swipe. With an obscene _thunk_ , her severed head fell to the floor. Then the rest of her body crumpled, blood exiting from her neck wound in a fountain of crimson. Some splattered against once-brilliant blue eyes, which were now frozen in unseeing terror.

Underneath Lightning’s fingertips, Hope gives a violent jerk. A strangled noise escapes from him, high-pitched and animal-sounding.

His distress lances straight through Lightning’s heart, prompting her to act blindly. Without warning, she overrides Etro’s control – ousting the deity in the process – and shuts down the vision.

Thus released from his psychic shackles, Hope jumps away as though her touch had burned him.

“They killed Alyssa,” he blurts out, shaking his head in horrified disbelief. “God, they _killed_ Alyssa. Since she wasn’t with me at the time, I hoped that she’d managed to—” he cuts himself off, unable to continue that train of thought. “They took off her head, there’s no way to recover from that. Oh god, I can’t believe she’s—”

Burying his face in his hand, Hope dissolves into incoherent rambles. Made wider by his trauma, the two-metre gap he’d put between them yawns into a seemingly impassable gulf. Lightning can only stare at him – so lost is she at how to respond.

Alyssa Zaidelle was Hope’s professional shadow and the closest thing he’d had to a friend. Their relationship had never progressed beyond that of colleagues (though not for lack of trying on Alyssa’s part). Even so, there was no doubt he cared for her. Watching her gruesome demise represents another cruel addition to the many misfortunes already heaped upon him.

“I’m sorry,” Lightning offers after a few minutes, the condolence sounding trite and inadequate even to her own ears. “I didn’t know she was there. But even if I did, there’s no way I could’ve reached her in time.”

“N-not your fault,” Hope chokes out.

“Do you—do you still wish to continue?”

He lets his hand fall away from his face and draws several deep, steadying breaths. When he meets her gaze again, he looks like he had aged several years. However, determination shines bright in his haggard, tear-stained eyes.

“Yes. I do.”

They resume their position from before, consecrated fingers pressed to mortal brow. For their unceremonious separation earlier, Lightning extends to Etro an apology, which the deity answers with tolerant dismissal. She then surrenders her body to Etro’s will once more. After re-integrating herself, the Goddess completes the mental circuit between all three participants and guides them back into the realm of prophecy.

They land in the middle of Hope and Alyssa’s official declaration of death. From there, events unravel in the same fashion as Lightning’s initial vision, like twin threads on the immutable spool of destiny. There is the token memorial service, complete with its ensemble of empty caskets. Next comes the lockdown and fruitless investigation into Augusta Tower, culminating in its abandonment. The following four centuries depict the gradual rise of Academia, only for the city’s downfall to take no more than a single night. (At the scene of the Cie’th-filled carnage, Hope lets out a loud gasp.) Finally, the vision ends with the collapse of the crystal pillar, which sends Cocoon crashing down in a disaster of unprecedented proportions.

Her part concluded, Etro relinquishes command of her servant’s body. Her accompanying corona of light retreats, allowing muted darkness to take its place as it disappears behind its cloud curtain. The unearthly glow recedes from Lightning’s eyes, as does the warmth from her limbs. All of a sudden, she is left feeling cold and bereft.

A minute passes in which she fights to regain her bearings, overcome her visceral lament of the Goddess’ withdrawal. Then Hope’s voice probes the silence, soft and tentative, “Light?”

She turns towards him, and spots his worried form a few metres to her right. Having noticed her disorientation, Hope had stepped away to give her some breathing space.

“W-What?” Groggy from reacclimatising, Lightning’s reply comes out in a croak.

The look Hope returns her is apprehensive. “Is it… _you_?”

“Yeah, it’s just me now,” she confirms, schooling her voice into something more normal-sounding. “Etro has gone.”

Her companion nods and relaxes a fraction. “That was—” he starts, casting around for the right word, “—a _unique_ experience.”

“I suppose,” Lightning says lackadaisically, bringing up her right forearm for closer inspection. A squint of concentration later, and her glove and gauntlet reappear in a bright flash. “That’s not the first time Etro’s done that.”

Her casual disregard of the matter causes Hope’s eyebrows to soar into his fringe. “You mean, she takes possession of you on a more-than-occasional basis?” he asks, part-incredulous and part-astonished. “I don’t know what’s more disquieting, the fact that she does at all or the fact that it doesn’t seem to bother you.”

She shrugs. “Does it matter? We got what we came here for.”

“Indeed,” he agrees, though the incredulity has yet to fade from his expression. “Though I can’t say I particularly _enjoyed_ the Goddess’ gift, gracious as she was to give it. The forecast of our future is dismal, to say the least. Is what we’ve seen really how things will turn out?”

Baffled by the implications of said forecast, Lightning shakes her head. “About that, there’s one thing I don’t understand,” she muses aloud. “Why hasn’t the future changed? Shouldn’t it change, since you didn’t die this time round?”

“‘This time round’?” repeats Hope, frowning at her choice of words.

“In every timeline that I can see, you die in the tower.”

His frown becomes more pronounced. “I die – in every timeline? But I was under the impression that there is only one true timeline?”

“My bad, I meant to say ‘permutations’,” she amends. “Normally, you’d be correct. However, the timeline has diverged thanks to the paradoxes. When the paradoxes are resolved one by one, the permutations eventually collapse into the one true timeline.”

She moves into Hope’s vicinity, meeting his gaze with her own resolute one. “That’s what I was aiming for when I prevented your death. The true timeline _cannot_ be one in which you die. I _refuse_ to believe that. So I took it upon myself to correct it, correct the timeline, except—”

“—I’m no longer in it,” he finishes for her.

“Yeah.” She expels a troubled huff and folds her arms. “It’s as though my intervention hadn’t made any kind of impact.”

He taps a gloved finger against his chin. “Maybe you need to put me back?” he suggests.

“You think it’s that simple?”

It is Hope’s turn to shrug. “Who knows? You’ve taken me here, which excised me from the timeline. Therefore, it would make sense that I have no further involvement in it. Ditto for the reverse.”

“But how can we get back safely?” she argues. “In case you’ve forgotten, there’s a murderous AI waiting for us back there.”

“Yes, that presents quite the quandary, doesn’t it?” he remarks with an ironic quirk of his lips. Then his eyes take on a steely cast. “But we’ll have to figure it out. I _must_ go back. So many things have gone wrong, and I need to fix them.” His expression changes once more, becoming pained. “Whatever is fixable, anyway. Alyssa and my other co-workers…”

“I’m sorry,” she says automatically.

He waves off her apology with a shake of his silver head. “As I’ve already said, that’s not your fault. But I can’t help but wonder – what if you’d gone back to an earlier point in time? Before all of this happened…”

Although his previous sentence made apparent that he’d absolved her of blame, the implied accusation hangs heavy in the air. “The time gate itself determines the era, not the traveller,” replies Lightning with more than a hint of defensiveness. “But even if _I_ could change that, I still wouldn’t know _when_ to go back to.”

To her relief, Hope does not pursue that line of inquiry. “It does beg the question of _how_ it happened,” he says, gesticulating thoughtfully. “What caused the tower’s AI to go haywire? We’ve put in every imaginable security measure. Evidently, our efforts weren’t enough. We humans aren’t infallible, of course. But something tells me external interference was involved. Perhaps the effect of a paradox?”

He breaks out in a pace, his booted soles clacking against the stone floor. “Regardless, one thing is clear. We were wrong to go ahead with the proto-fal’Cie project. The fal’Cie responsible for bringing down the Academy’s future capital is the same one we’d put there in the first place. Adam, our manmade fal’Cie.

“Of course, the project isn’t due to be completed for a good century or two, but we set the plans in motion. Ironic, isn’t it? After the Fall, we strove to rebuild the world with human technology alone. Yet, when faced with crisis, we sought the mystical means of our previous captors.

“Originally, we wanted the proto-fal’Cie’s power to re-levitate Cocoon. Then we thought to expand its utility to include protection of Academy property. You see, the anti-Academy campaigners often resort to acts of vandalism to express their sentiments. So, by imbuing the proto-fal’Cie with defensive capabilities, we would ensure that this part of our future is extra-secure. Insurance, you can say."

“In my present time, there is an ongoing debate about the need for certain functions – in particular, the ability to turn people into l’Cie and Cie’th. As you might imagine, I’m strongly opposed to this. The vast majority of people are. Therefore, it boggles my mind that the other side eventually won, and even more so that the rest of us followed through with their decision.” He pauses for a moment to shake his head. “That makes very little sense, indeed.”

“Ultimately, I’m disappointed, but unsurprised that Adam turned against us in the end. In our hubris, we believed we could engineer a fal’Cie to do our bidding. And so we were hoisted by our own petard.”

Ceasing his back-and-forth movements, he turns to face her. “I guess it’s back to the drawing board. There has to be another solution to stop Cocoon from falling.” He chases up this statement with a grimace, as though he had just sucked on a particularly sour lemon. “Adam just sat and watched it happen, after all. We really should’ve known that Fal’Cie can’t be trusted.”

“I’m sure you’ll come up with something,” Lightning commiserates, unfurling her arms. Then a figurative lightbulb goes off in her head. “Or maybe you already _have_. It could be one of the options you didn’t explore because you went ahead with the proto-Fal’Cie project instead.”

His eyes widen with dawning realisation. “You could be right. Perhaps it’s the de-crystallisation idea, where we chip away at the crystal layer, slowly shelling it like an egg. Or the excavation idea, where we dig a giant hole to contain Cocoon and the fallout. Or the evacuation idea, where we inhabit a separate floating entity, like an ark…”

He claps his hands, suddenly bubbling over with anxious energy. “I need to let the research team know straightaway. We’ve already lost three years, not to mention a bunch of good people. We can’t afford to let our plans go awry again. Light, please. Take me back.”

“You don’t have to keep asking.” she chides, his excitement having infected her with its more somber counterpart. Even though she knows that it is inevitable, she cannot help but mourn his departure. Unbidden, the words slip out of her, “It’s just—must we say goodbye again so soon?”

His gaze pierces her with the acuity of an arrow. “You don’t want me to go,” he says slowly, voice soft with wonderment.

Ashamed that she had given herself away, Lightning lets out a loud exhalation and turns from him.

However, Hope does not allow her to retreat further. Surging forward, he captures her hands in his larger ones. His eyes seek out hers, and she raises her own to meet them. At the sight of his unabashed empathy within those wintergreen depths, an answering warmth blossoms inside her.

“Light, I understand. I know how lonely you’ve been. If it’s any consolation, I want nothing more than to remain here with you. But I _need_ to go back. I need to build our future.” He squeezes her hands, and the look he gives her takes on an intense, longing quality not unlike the one from when he begged her to return with him earlier. “A future where we can all be together.”

Touched by his sentiment, she finally accedes. “Alright. We should be able to return through the time gate…”

As though mentioning the temporal device had triggered something unpleasant, Hope untangles his hands from hers and purses his lips. “Is that the only way out of here?”

“I’d say so,” she affirms, puzzled at his abrupt change of attitude. “Temporal rifts _can_ connect two different places or eras, but more often than not they’re just pockets of mismatched time.”

“Not to mention they’re subject to random circumstance?”

“Yeah. But it doesn’t matter, since Etro can’t conjure them anyway. Only time gates.”

“Damn.” His frown intensifies, highlighting the fine web of lines around his eyes. “I was hoping that you have another idea, but we’ll see how that goes first. I mean, if you took me through it, I should theoretically be able to go back the same way, shouldn’t I?”

She raises a quizzical eyebrow at him. “What makes you so worried about that?”

“Suffice it to say I have a theory, and it’s anything but useful,” he says darkly. “If this turns out to be a bust—”

“Let’s go find out.”

Without preamble, Lightning snatches Hope’s hand, whisking them back from whence they came.

* * *

After ferrying his two passengers back across the crystal bridge, Odin deposits them on the shore. The Eidolon then dematerialises into thin air, leaving them to their business.

The time gate stands a few metres away from their landing point, whirring softly. Having surrendered its virgin access, it now bears a scorched appearance. Black tarnishes the once-pristine lustre of its metal ribs, and a writhing red mist spills from its centre.

Certain of her admittance, Lightning approaches it and raises her hand. The time gate responds accordingly, whirring faster and unlatching its main hinge in preparation for entry. Great rings of ancient script form around and orbit the structure, and her body becomes swathed in golden motes. She feels herself sublimating, as though she is becoming as weightless as the air particles surrounding her.

Beckoned by the interdimensional crossroads beyond, she floats up and towards the gate’s golden entrance. However, she opts out of the process with a mental shake, and drifts back to the ground harmlessly.

As soon as her sabatons alight on the sand, Lightning turns around to face her companion. “Your turn now.”

Hope nods and steps forward, his expression tense. To her surprise – and growing trepidation – he passes the threshold upon which the time gate would typically activate, sidling close to the metal frame. He then presses his gloved fingers against its charred surface.

Nothing happens.

There isn’t so much as a glow or click to indicate that the time gate had detected Hope’s presence. There isn’t even the appearance of a barrier to deny his entry. Just nothing.

“Looks like this isn’t an option,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes at the offending contraption.

Lightning blinks, bewildered. “It doesn’t make any sense. Why should it allow only me to go through, but not you? It let us both through before.”

Beside the time gate, Hope had gone stiff as a board. “I should’ve known this would happen,” he says, every word vibrating with fury. Then something inside him snaps, and he slams his fist against the metal in a pique of uncharacteristic violence. However, his efforts do not earn him so much as a dent. Just like its complete lack of reaction towards him, the time gate had absorbed the demonstration of his anger with equal indifference.

When Hope speaks again, his voice had escalated to a shout. “I should’ve known this would happen! The time gates have never reacted in my presence, so why should I expect them to start now? Why did I even bother getting my hopes up? Apparently I’m still missing that inexplicable cosmic stamp that everyone else managed to get. Everyone except _me_ ,” the last word comes out in a bitter hiss.

“Hope…” Unsure of what to say in the face of his misfortune, Lightning can only call out his name.

“Guess that explains why I’m no longer in the timeline, huh?” he snarls. His head droops forward, obscuring his agonised expression behind a curtain of silver hair. “Because I am physically _incapable_ of returning.”

“Hope, I honestly did not expect this,” she pleads, beset with guilt for having placed him in this situation, however unwittingly. “Gods, I’m so sorry.”

The inert time gate, Hope’s conspicuous absence in the timeline’s future. Both are pieces of incontrovertible evidence that point towards one damning conclusion:

Hope is trapped in Valhalla.


	5. Chapter 5 – Coordination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N** : A short, transitional chapter to capture our couple's reaction to the previous chapter's revelation, establish their course of action and develop their relationship. The Hope/Lightning ship must set sail… before it invariably crashes and burns.

xxx

**Chapter 5 – Coordination**

xxx

Their next attempt to access the time gate also results in disappointment. Surmising that she can pull him through if they manage to stay in contact, Lightning interlinks hands with Hope. However, they are yanked apart a moment later as she floats up and away, her superhuman strength proving useless against the strange inertia that keeps him rooted. Thwarted yet again, they agree to adjourn the task.

Refusing to be deterred, Lightning proceeds to circle the temporal device like a bird of prey, scrutinising its various components. Hope, on the other hand, wanders a few metres away, opting to put distance between himself and the cause of his offence. His earlier outburst seems to have sapped his reserves of anger, and he now looks more weary than anything else.

After her third unproductive lap around the time gate, Lightning stops and plants a frustrated foot into the sand. “There must be a way for you to return.”

Her proclamation only earns a loud sigh from her partner. “If there is, I doubt it’s through here. The gate has clearly vetoed _this_ course of action.”

“But why would it let you through before only to deny you now?” she grumbles, aiming a kick at the base of the infernal contraption.

From her peripheral vision, she watches Hope readjust his folded arms to give his hand a sardonic flip. “How should I know? You can chalk that up to the magical, incomprehensible ways of cosmic devices that, by all rights, shouldn’t exist. Oh wait, they don’t come with a manual.”

She whirls around to turn the full potency of her glare upon him. “What I’m getting at is that there’s gotta be a reason!”

While the hostile eye contact would have cowed Hope’s fourteen-year-old self, it barely fazes his adult incarnation. “Clearly, time gates _don’t_ abide by reason,” he snaps back. When this does nothing but aggravate her further, he ameliorates, “Though, that’s not to say we haven’t observed certain consistencies in their operation—”

“And what _are_ these consistencies?” interjects Lightning, seizing the proffered prompt. “You’ve studied them in some detail, haven’t you? Tell me what you’ve learned.”

Recognising her effort to steer the conversation into more productive territory, Hope untucks his arms and complies. “We’ve established three things so far,” he says, raising the corresponding number of fingers for emphasis. “Firstly,” he ticks off a finger, “time gates can be activated only by specific artefacts, which are consumed upon use. Secondly,” he ticks off another finger, “only a handful of people – the ‘predestined ones’ – can go through. That’ll be you, Serah and Noel, presumably Snow and Sazh as well.

“Which brings us to the third observation.” Upon ticking off the final finger, he then sets his hands aside. “For the remaining populace – myself included – the time gates produce no reaction whatsoever. Ever since they’ve appeared, we’ve been introducing various subjects and variables – or whatever’s available to us, anyway – in an attempt to elicit a response. What you’ve witnessed is the expected outcome a hundred percent of the time. This indicates that my previous admission was exceptional, an outlying aberration.”

Lightning rests her chin against her knuckles thoughtfully. “I suppose you haven’t had the chance to see how time gates react to ordinary people and predestined ones together?”

Hope shakes his silver head. “Alas, no. Serah and Noel’s visiting period only spanned a total of thirteen days. After that, we never saw them again. Even so, they were quite occupied during the time they were around. I couldn’t monopolise their limited availability, especially not for the sake of running tests on them.”

“Guess we’ll never know,” she shrugs. “But one thing is clear: my presence, or something I’ve done, has influenced your ability to go through. From one end, anyway.”

“Or,” he posits with a speculative wave of his hand, “it could be that my ability – or lack thereof – to go through hadn’t changed at all, so much as I managed to escape detection.”

She cocks her head, intrigued by the idea. “Like I became a lead plate to your presence or something?”

“Or a bonfire in comparison to fading embers, rather,” he corrects. “You’d just salvaged me from the brink of death. Perhaps I was so weak at the time that your presence completely eclipsed mine. Somehow, this caused the gate to overlook me…”

“Not to mention I also gave you my life-force, which could’ve masked your presence as well…”

She’d supplied this detail with the nonchalance of an afterthought, but it captures Hope’s full attention. “Wait, you gave me your _life-force_?” he repeats, wintergreen eyes snapping wide. “I thought you’d only used normal healing magic?”

“In the vision, you saw for yourself what happened,” Lightning elaborates for his benefit. “When I tried to seal your wounds, your body couldn’t handle the shock. Your heart stopped. Jumpstarting it with my life-force was the only thing I could come up with on short notice.”

“I remember the panicked look on your face when you checked my pulse… Does that mean I’d already died back there?”

“Technically, I guess.”

“And since I’d died, my life-force was depleted, which you’d temporarily replaced with your own.” A figurative light-bulb goes off behind his eyes, and he snaps his fingers in triumph. “That would do the trick! Somehow, it deceived the gate into thinking I wasn’t there, or that I was simply an extension of you. But after you brought me through and nursed me back to health, my life-force returned, making me a separate, impermissible entity again.”

“That’s… a plausible theory,” she concedes, impressed by his deductive process.

Fast as it had come, Hope’s moment of inspiration dissipates. A frown turns down the corners of his mouth, and thunderclouds brew in his narrowed eyes. “But using your life-force, Light… That’s incredibly dangerous.”

His admonishing tone causes Lightning’s hackles to rise. “I did what I had to do,” she replies, not a little defensively.

Striding towards her, Hope braces his hands against his hips in a pose eerily reminiscent of herself. “Not that I’m ungrateful for that, but… have you considered the repercussions? What if you hadn’t handled the transfer properly? The backlash would’ve burned out all of your remaining life-force. Even performing the transfer successfully would leave you drained. What if you had encountered your adversary – Caius, was it? – on the way back? Would you have been able to fight him off in your compromised condition, let alone with my unconscious self as an extra burden?”

He was right. In that precarious moment where Hope’s life had hung in the balance, she’d forgone sense in favour of achieving the most immediate result. It was sheer, dumb luck that saved them. And Lightning Farron isn’t a fool who depends on luck.

“Well, that didn’t happen, so what does it matter?” she shoots back, hating the note of defiance that had managed to creep into her voice.

“That _could’ve_ happened,” he maintains, cool and deliberate and unrelenting in his censure. “By acting on that impulse, you _could’ve_ inadvertently killed yourself. You _could’ve_ jeopardised Etro’s safety and thus the safety of the world.”

“You think I don’t know _that_?” the retort escapes her in knee-jerk fashion, and her hands curl into fists at her sides. “It wasn’t like I had a range of options! The whole point of this excursion was to prevent your death, and that’s exactly what I’ve done!”

“Some actions have heavier consequences than others, Light. The risks don’t outweigh the benefits in this case.”

“Are you saying you’d rather have stayed dead?” she cries, feeling her whole body shake with mixed indignation and disbelief.

At this, Hope’s controlled demeanour unravels. A grimace twists his handsome face, and he flings up his palms in vexation. “Well, I’m effectively dead to the world now, aren’t I? The future doesn’t include me.”

“And _as I’ve said_ ,” persists Lightning, capitalising on the lapse in their verbal battle to forward her agenda, “that’s an anomaly that’ll change once I get you back. And I _will_ get you back. If giving you my life-force again is the only way we’re getting through this _fucking gate_ —” she punctuates the expletive with a punch at a nearby metal rib, emulating Hope in his earlier fit of rage, “—then I’m doing it.”

“ _No_!” Hope’s protest is loud and vehement. “Weren’t you paying attention to what I said before?” When she ignores him and hunkers down to begin the life-force transfer process, he startles her by lunging forward and snatching her wrist. “Stop! We’re not doing this!” he hisses, boring his eyes down into hers. “I _cannot_ ask you to do this. Why, we wouldn’t even get past the transfer part! Since I’m no longer on the cusp of death, my body would just reject your life-force! And where would that leave you?”

Refusing to back down, Lightning holds their staring match for several tense seconds, storm-blue eyes clashing against wintergreen. Then she wrenches herself away, forcing Hope to let go of her. “We wouldn’t know unless we try!”

“It doesn’t matter; I’m not willing to gamble your life away on a chance!” There is genuine alarm in his voice now.

She lifts a eyebrow at him, her lip curling in a sneer. “Tch. And here I thought you were the one so eager to get back—”

“Make no mistake; I’m just as eager to get back,” he interrupts her, the words spilling from his lips in a rush. “This just _isn’t_ the right approach, can’t you see that?”

Recognising the plea in his furrowed brow and bared teeth, Lightning folds her arms and juts out her chin at him challengingly. “What do you suggest then?”

Hope lets out a loud exhalation. “You want me to stay with you, right? That’s what I’ll do, at least until we can come up with a different solution. I’ll evaluate our circumstances, take stock of our resources, and formulate another exit strategy.”

“And what if there isn’t another way?”

“Then I’ll stay indefinitely.” At her scowl, he tears a hand through his hair and makes a frustrated noise. “What other choice do I have, Light?”

“We could go _now_ ,” she grinds out.

His initial response is to shoot her a fleeting, ‘ _you’re impossible_ ’ look. Then resolve sets into his features and turns them into granite. “For the last time, Lightning, _I refuse_.”

As the seconds tick by, it becomes increasingly apparent that there is nothing she can say or do to dissuade him. “Fine!” she surrenders, tossing her hands into the air. “You’re one stubborn ass, Hope Estheim.”

“The same can be said of you,” he retaliates, “despite my having pointed out why this idea is utterly, _disastrously_ flawed.”

Too proud to give him the satisfaction of the affirmative, Lightning expels a huff and turns away.

“What happened to the kid who used to obey my commands?” she mutters, more to herself than him. She hadn’t anticipated that thirteen years apart – from his perspective, anyway – would turn him so _argumentative_.

There is a moment or two of silence, then Hope replies in a solemn voice, “He grew up.”

“If growing up means you’d argue everything I say or do,” she says sullenly, massaging the bridge of her nose where pressure had accumulated throughout their quarrel, “I think I’d rather you stayed a kid.”

“Really, now?” His tone is cautiously skeptical. “Weren’t you all for me toughening up?”

“Yeah, but… not against me,” the admission escapes her in a near-whisper.

She hears Hope release another drawn-out breath, but it comes across as more sympathetic than exasperated. Then there is the weight of a tentative hand on her shoulder, gently urging her to turn around. She acquiesces.

“Light, I’m sorry.” His apology is reflected in the softness of his gaze. “I didn’t mean to fight with you. It just seems like we’re encountering roadblock after roadblock, and I’m incredibly frustrated at this. We both are.”

His words puncture the barrel of building emotion inside her ribcage, leaving her deflated all of a sudden. “Look at us,” Lightning sighs, sagging against the frame of the time gate. “Not a day has gone by and we’re already at each other’s throats. How’re we supposed to go on like this?”

“I’d rather we get along too, Light,” Hope returns earnestly. “But conflicts are inevitable in any human interaction. What’s important is how we resolve them.”

“That’s the thing – I’m completely out of practise,” she confesses, hoping to establish some degree of understanding with her audience. “Not that I was any good at talking to begin with. As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve had no one to talk to but Eidolons and monsters, though there’s the occasional visitor who’d slip through from the Void Beyond, like Mog. The rule here is that weak serve the strong. Being Etro’s champion puts me at the top of the hierarchy, so nobody, save Etro herself, can question my decisions. It makes for very one-sided conversations.”

Hope gives her a nod to indicate his attentiveness, though his expression morphs into something wry as he opens his mouth to speak. “In other words, you’ve been the undisputed overlord for eons untold. Have I disturbed your universe, then?”

This surprises an brief chuckle out of her. “I guess I needed the change of pace.”

“Hopefully it’ll be of the agreeable sort. I expect I’ll be staying here awhile.”

“Let’s try not to make each other miserable in the meantime, then.”

He graces her with a small, appreciative smile. Then another idea takes hold of him and lights the mischievous glint in his wintergreen irises. “Pinky-swear on it?” he offers, waggling said appendage.

She lets out a derisive sniff. _So juvenile_. Nevertheless, she wraps her finger around his, completing the pact.

To his credit, he refrains from grinning outright, but the crinkle of his eyes betrays his delight. However, the moment of joviality is short-lived. Not a few seconds later, his features school themselves into seriousness once more.

“Light, please. Let me make one thing clear about all this,” he says, taking her hands into his own. “I want to return, but not at your expense or anyone else’s. If it turns out that I’m stuck here for good, then that’s something I’ll come to accept in time.” He runs his thumb across her knuckles in a unmistakable caress, and her skin tingles even through the multiple layers of gloved fabric separating them. “Because I have you with me.”

Discomfited both by his casual affection and the reminder of her incompetence, she hangs her head. “But it’s my fault that you’re stuck here…”

“Just as it’s your fault that I’m alive at all?” scoffs Hope, though without malice. “Troublesome though it may be, my current state is infinitely preferable to being dead. You did well just bringing us this far. Please, Light, give yourself some credit.”

Unconvinced, she keeps her eyes angled downwards, studying their entwined hands. It fascinates her how his larger ones form a protective cradle around hers, even though _she_ is the one clad in armour.

“Is this your attempt at softening me up, Hope? Flattery won’t get you anywhere.”

“It’s not flattery.” His voice carries the calm, unshakable conviction of one stating a fact.

“Maybe it isn’t,” Lightning permits, though she feels no less compelled to invalidate the compliments she cannot possibly deserve. “But you’d be lying if you say that being stuck here with me is a good thing.”

“You’re hardly bad company, Light,” he reassures her in that same steady tone.

“Despite my demonstrations to the contrary?”

“We’ll adjust to one another eventually, as we once did. But that’s not what I’m getting at. Perhaps you’ve yet to realise this, but to me, you’re—”

He pauses, drawing in a deep breath. Then, ever so carefully, he slides a finger under her chin, tilting her head up. Surrendering to his guidance, she lifts her gaze to meet the wintergreen eyes she had so studiously avoided for the past minute.

“You really _are_ a sight for sore eyes.”

While emotional astuteness isn’t her forte, Lightning would be denser than a rock not to recognise that Hope had meant each and every word. Because right at this moment, he is looking at her with his heart in his eyes. Through those vibrant green, too-transparent lenses, she discerns grief and affection and that terrible, ever-present longing. The sight leaves her transfixed, threatening to overwhelm her with the sheer intensity of his emotion. But try as she might, she cannot bring herself to look away.

In her paralysis, she is unable to do anything but _feel_ as Hope continues with his ministrations. His hand migrates from her chin to her ear, tucking away a stray lock of hair that had fallen into her face. Then his gloved fingertips descend feather-light upon her cheek, blazing an electric trail across her skin. The contact elicits a sharp inhalation from her, and her mind disconnects as the rest of her nerves cascade-fire and turn her face into a tingling conflagration.

Suddenly, it is just _too much_.

With trembling fingers, she grasps the presumptuous trespasser that is his hand and slowly, purposefully sets it aside. She then takes a step back and away, allowing air and reluctance to fill the gap between them and dissipate the static still clinging to her skin.

“The novelty will wear off,” she finally blurts, discomfort forcing out the words in more brusque a manner than normal. “Then we’ll be two lonely, grumpy souls in the middle of nowhere.”

A flicker of disappointment crosses his face, but Hope’s expression is otherwise oddly serene for someone who had just been brushed off. “Yes, but we won’t be alone. Not anymore.”

He makes this declaration with an all-encompassing gravity, like it is the one thing that truly matters. And Lightning believes him. Because that’s all she's ever wanted: to not be alone.


	6. Chapter 6 – Discretion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N** : This chapter is something of a character study, containing a fair few introspective spiels mixed in with the mandatory Hope/Light shippiness. I should also mention that it constitutes the first part of a longer chapter that got so long, I had to split it in two. Enjoy!
> 
> Also, I hate to ask for this but... please do review. Your feedback gives me much needed motivation to go on.

xxx

**Chapter 6 – Discretion**

xxx

While not an outright surprise, Hope’s continued company isn’t something Lightning has given serious consideration to. When she’d marched off to Augusta Tower, she had no goal beyond subverting his premature death and restoring his rightful place in the timeline. Going their separate ways after that was inevitable. Sure, the joy of meeting him again may have roused a fantasy or two of prolonging their time together. But they were no more than whimsical desires – products of her deep-seated loneliness.

Now that she is faced with the very real prospect that Hope is here to stay, Lightning is unsure how to proceed.

The light of the encroaching dawn washes over them, painting streaks of pink-gold across the rooftops of surrounding buildings. Having explored the beach earlier, she and Hope had made the unanimous decision to head inland. At present, they are trekking up one of the estuaries along the citadel’s lower deck. Boots and sabatons fall against stone pavement, tapping out a syncopated rhythm of scuffs and metallic clicks. It emphasises the silence between them, thick and ambivalent and rife with the question of who between them will take the initiative to break it.

On Lightning’s part, she is content to let the silence lie in favour of further contemplation.

Having Hope as her new companion will take some adjustment, indeed. But it isn’t the matter of practicalities that concerns her.

In the Unseen Realm, the law – _eat or be eaten_ – that governs life elsewhere holds no sway, as all beings are automatically exempt from their biological necessities. However, the struggle for power and dominance is no less pervasive, engendering conflict between residents. As Etro’s champion and pinnacle holder of the social hierarchy, Lightning does not typically receive unsolicited attention from her subordinates. In fact, they tend to keep a wide berth from her. And while Hope presents an untested addition to the pecking order, he too, should remain undisturbed so long as he remains under her protection.

She turns the corner onto a partly occupied street, where a pack of resting Gorgonopsids lay. Hope goes still behind her, understandably wary. However, upon her approach, the lupines rise to their feet and disperse without so much as a growl of protest, lending credence to her recent musings.

As demonstrated, this lack of threats – Caius excepted – means that for Lightning, shelter is a luxury rather than a requirement. Even so, the Goddess had seen fit to bestow upon her a personal haven: a replica of her home in Bodhum, salvaged from her memories and made manifest by magic. While she makes little use of the place, it remains available in the event that she and Hope require a moment of privacy or rest.

They step off the street and onto an arched bridge overlooking the shore. Midway through, Lightning stops, leaning forward against the balustrade and casting her gaze out to the horizon. On her right side, Hope does the same.

Regarding their day-to-day occupancy, having Hope around will be a welcome change to Lightning’s (nonexistent) routine. After countless eons of fighting and training and meditating, it’s a wonder she hasn’t yet expired from sheer tedium. (Creature of habit though Lightning may be, her tolerance of repetition only stretches so far.) As for Hope, the absence of living civilisation or modern technology limits his entertainment options, but she is certain he will find ways to keep himself busy. Even she has yet to explore the citadel in full. If his discipline in archaeology is any indication, he will no doubt be eager to plumb the mysteries of the Unseen Realm.

All in all, practicalities shouldn’t present an issue. Really, what concerns Lightning is the upheaval of her and Hope’s dynamic.

She turns towards her erstwhile partner, taking in the longer, wiser lines of his adult features. Absorbed as he is in his apparent study of the rising sun, he doesn’t seem to notice.

This grown-up Hope is similar, yet markedly different to how she remembers him. Although years of observation have attuned her to the changes in his personality, she is by and large unprepared for how they play out in real life. At his core, Hope is the same kind person who had somehow bypassed her barriers and secured a portion of her heart for himself. His warmth, compassion and humility are still his standout characteristics. But to find herself amid his unyielding convictions, keen deductive powers, newfound confidence – as evidenced by his lack of hesitation to talk back to her, challenge her, _touch_ her—

Yes, the thing that disconcerts Lightning most about Hope is his _open affection_ towards her.

It confers a tension to their interactions that wasn’t present before. Their old relationship – of mentor and student, then of partners who’d depended on one another for survival – was a comfortable, low-maintenance thing, demanding no dramatic gestures or overt displays of sentiment. For the most part, they’d subsisted on physical nearness, wordless understandings and the certainty that they’d watch each other’s backs.

That had been plenty for her. After all, Lightning is neither a demonstrative person nor one who requires much in the way of emotional support.

However, that’s not to say that young Hope held equal reservations; he simply hadn’t put forward his sentiments with the current level of _potency_. Whenever he had gazed up at her, she’d seen the unmistakeable admiration and fondness shining in his eyes. But his approach was subtle, constrained to warm greetings, eager responses to her requests and quiet but insistent company. Perhaps back then, he couldn’t muster the nerve to overcome her unapproachable demeanour and give true voice to his feelings.

He has certainly managed to find the nerve now, going so far as to drop that loaded statement:

_You truly are a sight for sore eyes._

That, coupled with the intense look he gave her and the way he caressed her cheek… It may be hundreds of years since her last dalliance with the opposite sex, but Lightning isn’t so oblivious as not to recognise a flirtation attempt. Were he anyone else, she would say Hope had made a pass at her.

Back in reality, the aforementioned pass-maker has finally noticed that he is the target of her attention. He turns towards her with a curious expression. Ashamed to be caught staring, Lightning averts her gaze.

The idea – of Hope _flirting_ with her – is bewildering, to say the least. From what she has gleaned of his behaviour, it is unlike him to make overtures of this nature in casual conversation. Which implies that he spoke those words in earnestness, which in turn implies that he is actually _interested_ in her.

But _Hope being interested in her_ is even more bewildering of an idea.

How can he see her in _that_ light? Because it’s _Hope_ to whom she refers. Hope, the tagalong-turned-surrogate little brother who once fled from her frigid glare, then cleaved to her for protection. Hope, whose forehead barely came up to her shoulder, his boyish voice meek and uneven, his too-wide eyes a portrait of vulnerability. The rigours of their l’Cie misadventure may have stripped away his innocence and hardened him, but underneath that he was just a _child_.

Only he cannot qualify as a child anymore.

Before her stands a man in full-fledged maturity. Not only has he surpassed her in age and stature, he has also grown into his formidable intellect and grace (and argumentativeness too, to her chagrin). His vulnerability is tempered with resilience, and his need to be protected has evolved far beyond himself into a determination to reclaim his loved ones and safeguard the world’s future.

Perhaps _he_ – a somewhat familiar, but mostly _alien_ creature bearing Hope’s name and face and memories – can manifest interest in her.

She lets her gaze fall upon a floating island in the distance. Given their circumstances, it seems rather premature for him to do so. After scraping through a near-death situation, navigating thirteen years of being apart, and coming to terms with the fact that he may be stuck here (quite possibly for good), how can he even be in an appropriate frame of mind to entertain amorous thoughts?

_That would make you a filthy hypocrite, you realise?_

Momentary lapse or not, Lightning had blatantly ogled Hope’s unconscious, naked self when the opportunity arose earlier. And what she’d felt were the stirrings of undeniable animal magnetism.

What’s to prohibit Hope from feeling the same way? Her lack of nakedness – and modesty – notwithstanding, she doesn’t cut a bad figure in her ethereal armour. Surely he is as capable of experiencing sexual attraction as she is. (But there’s a discrepancy here. Despite there being some very physically attractive people among his potential suitors, he had turned them all away with equal disinterest.)

Which begs the question of _why_ this concept is so disorientating to her in the first place. Is it because she is still trying (and failing) to reconcile his child and adult selves?

Furthermore, there’s that niggling thought at the back of her mind: what if she’s reading too much into his one gesture? Interpreting everything the wrong way? Drawing the wrong conclusion?

Wouldn’t _that_ be mortifying?

Okay, she needs to slow down. Backtrack. Gather more information. Discern the reason behind his inexplicable behaviour. Set aside her previous, outdated assumptions of him and build his mental image anew.

She needs to learn _Hope Estheim_ all over again.

The question is _how_.

A stray breeze sweeps her fringe into her eyes, which she brushes aside with an impatient hand. By her own admission, she is woefully out of practise with human interaction. But her problem runs deeper. It boils down to one simple fact: _Lightning Farron is not good at connecting with people_. Her icy persona is more than a barricade to keep others out; it’s to keep them from looking _in_ and discovering this insecurity of hers. She has never honed her skills at making conversation, an essential foundation stone in the building of relationships.

The bond between herself and Hope already exists, which alleviates the intimidation factor of connecting with a complete stranger (from which the older-and-improved Hope admittedly isn’t very far off). But it lies in disrepair – an abandoned bridge crumbling under the ravages of distance and time and broken promises. Socially incompetent as Lightning is, how is she supposed to fix it? Or more dauntingly yet, repave it with fresh stones of their new and altered dynamic?

Whether by stroke of luck or miraculous insight, Hope has somehow honed onto her dilemma.

“It seems like our reunion has had a bit of a rocky start,” he pipes up, recapturing her attention. The morning light strews across his hair, giving it a shade uncannily like her own. “I’d like to remedy that.”

She nods. “I’d like that too.”

“Y’know, we never got to know each other properly when we were l’Cie. I guess it wasn’t a priority at the time to explore the little things about ourselves. I never asked you what your favourite colour was. Or your favourite food. Or pastime, or music genre.”

He isn’t remiss in his observation; there were far graver things – like their Cie’th countdown – to occupy them other than collecting trivial details about each other. Not that Lightning would have welcomed such inquisitiveness. Unless relevant to the matter at hand, volunteering personal information goes against her taciturn nature.

However, looking into Hope’s earnest face, she finds herself only too willing to indulge him.

“I don’t usually play twenty questions,” she replies in cool tones. Then her voice softens. “But I’ll make an exception for you.”

A smile pulls up the corners of his mouth, warm and appreciative. She decides she likes it – not least because it brings out the soulfulness of his eyes. “If it makes things easier, I’ll go first. My favourite colour is orange.”

“Orange? Interesting choice. Surely it isn’t inspired by _that_?” She jerks her head in the direction of the sunrise.

He lets out a brief chuckle. “No, I’ve always liked orange, though the fact that it forms part of the sunrise makes it all the more appealing. I like it because of what it represents. It’s warm and invigorating. It conveys enthusiasm and creativity. It’s the colour of fire, of life and rebirth.”

“Trust you to bring symbolism into it,” she says wryly. This is followed by a pause as several memories of his fourteen-year-old self pull to the surface. “Is that why you picked out that… orange jacket?”

If Hope’s quirked eyebrow is any indication, she hasn’t quite managed to leave out the distaste in her question. (Though, anyone who thinks _that_ jacket makes a good fashion statement is either deluded or aspiring towards ridicule.)

“The way you say that, it’s as though I made a horrible life decision.”

“Well, orange doesn’t go with your pale complexion,” she points out with a shrug. “Washes you out. And those flaps not only painted a target on you, they also crowded your shoulders and made you look—” she casts around for an appropriate word to describe the unflattering sight, “— _scrawnier_.”

His other eyebrow joins its twin in their ascent into his fringe. “I… suppose? But Light,” he continues, amusement becoming more pronounced in his voice as he goes on, “are you really criticising the clothes selection skills of a fourteen-year-old boy?”

Huffing, she pushes off the balustrade and faces him fully, folding her arms. “It’s justified when you look about as conspicuous as a flag.”

Her disgruntled retort only earns her multiple twitches of his lips – it’s obvious that he is fighting to rein in his laughter. “Hey, I thought it was trendy at the time.”

She tucks her arms more securely under her breastplate. “In that case, I hope that growing up has improved your sense of _trendiness_.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but following fashion trends isn’t within my scope of interests nowadays,” he returns with a blithe smile. “Though, if _this_ —” he waves a hand over himself, indicating his Academy uniform, “—offends you, I’ll just say I didn’t pick it out or put it together. How far does it fall short of your standards?”

Pursing her lips, she gives him an appraising twice-over. The crisp cut of the fabric does well to accentuate his tapered shape and long, lean lines. Although the white-and-yellow palette may be a little bright for her taste, it otherwise has no detracting value. The combat boots and storage pouches lend a air of versatility and resourcefulness, providing contrast against the tie’s refined professionalism.

All in all, the whole ensemble – and the man in it – make for a compelling impression. Of course, its mangled state leaves much to be desired.

“It doesn’t, actually. You don’t look half-bad in it.” _When it’s not riddled with holes, that is_.

She doesn’t realise she had spoken the afterthought aloud until Hope asks, “What was that, Light?”

“N—Nevermind.”

Bemusement is plain in the furrow of his brow, but he doesn’t push the matter. “Thank you for the compliment,” he says, pairing his words with a well-mannered little nod. “Though I must admit I never took you for an aesthete, Light. It seems a little… frivolous for someone as practical as yourself.”

“What, I can’t appreciate matching colour schemes or well-fitting clothes?”

Her quip lacks any real bite, but Hope nevertheless raises his palms in a conciliatory gesture. “It’s just something I wouldn’t expect of you, that’s all. So, what’s your favourite colour, Light?”

She takes a moment to cycle through a mental kaleidoscope before arriving at a decision. “Green, I’d say. And before you start—” she plows on, seeing curiosity and surprise flit across his face, “—no, it has nothing to do with symbolism. I like it because it’s the colour of plants. Soothing to look at.”

“Green is quite therapeutic,” he agrees. “I’ve advocated a number of petitions to install more plants in Academy buildings, but most fell through. Ruins the fluidity of the decor, they say.”

Turning back towards the balustrade, she rests her palms against its weathered surface. “It also reminds me of frozen lakes in winter.”

“Green isn’t the colour I’d normally associate with lakes,” Hope puts forward, his tone quizzical. “If they’re frozen, wouldn’t ‘white’ be more fitting? Or ’blue’? Or even ‘black’?”

“Blue-green, then,” she clarifies. “On a clear day, the water is a beautiful blue-green colour, flecked with silvery bits of ice. Green, in the midst of winter.” She lets her gaze drift back to his, looking into the eyes that have – by subconscious effort, she realises now – drawn her for this very likeness. “ _Wintergreen_.”

Said wintergreen eyes grow wider with each protracted second that passes by as Hope holds her gaze. Then he wrenches himself away, scrutinising his right sleeve all of a sudden. It is hard to tell in the morning light, but there appears to be a tinge of pink on his cheeks.

“That’s unexpectedly poetic of you,” he admits, voice hushed with wonder and something tentative, fragile. “Not to mention, uh, flattering. Unless I’m horribly mistaken and you’re not describing the colour of my eyes?”

Only by virtue of her military discipline does Lightning not outwardly startle. In her attempt to place words to her thoughts, she’d given away a very telling detail – the full implication of which her companion had caught onto. It’s clear now, what that other emotion in his voice is: _hope _. But how can she give him the confirmation he seeks when she has just realised of this herself?__

“I—I might come up with poetic stuff from time to time,” she finally blurts, ignoring his question.

But her clumsy deflection fails to achieve the desired result, for the damage – her unintended, highly _personal_ compliment to him – had already been done. “You’re quite the wellspring of surprises, Light,” Hope comments as he turns back to her, his restrained words at odds with the heart-stopping smile that illuminates his face. It isn’t fair; no man ought to look _that_ beautiful. “Now, if I may be so unsubtle as to change the subject, what kind of music do you enjoy?”

He listens with unwavering interest as she reveals that she likes – or more accurately, _liked_ , since she hasn’t had the luxury of hearing music in a long time – classical and jazz. As far as her pastimes go, she still enjoys a good workout (be it in the form of running, swimming or sparring) and scenic hikes (though Valhalla’s desolate beauty has grown increasingly stale over the centuries). In turn, she learns that he appreciates a _very_ wide range of music genres (almost to the point of complete indiscrimination) and spends what little spare time he has writing programs or tinkering with gadgets (his beloved boomerang included).

She also discovers – to her complete lack of surprise – that he has a weakness for confectionary, in particular lamingtons ( _which self-respecting sweet tooth would say no to cake covered in chocolate and delicious coconut fluff?_ ). Her mention of behemoth steak does, however, derail the conversation to the actual beast itself, then the combative challenges it presents.

They cross the bridge and reenter the main road, continuing their meander further into the citadel. As a flight of Amphisbaena glide past overhead, the topic shifts to nostalgic recounts of their time together as l’Cie:

“Do you remember,” Hope begins, his gaze lingering on the wyverns’ departing silhouettes, “the time Snow thought it was a good idea to challenge the wandering Zirnitra in the Archylte Steppe?”

Her mind faithfully retrieves the memory of that terrifying encounter, where the colossal winged reptile had made several (too-close) attempts at dismembering her. “Yeah, I remember. That’s one of the Cie’th stone Foci that we were better off leaving alone. But the moron wanted us to flex our l’Cie muscles. Nearly got us all killed.”

“I could’ve died from the anxiety alone,” he confesses. “It was _horrible_ , watching you play sentinel against that beast. You’re really agile, but one wrong move at the wrong moment and it would’ve been all over.” He stops mid-step and gives an exaggerated shudder.

She comes to a halt alongside him, clapping a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I only survived that because I had you backing me up.”

He gives her a solemn look. “I’d have preferred if you didn’t put yourself in situations of mortal danger altogether. Barring that, I only did my best to mitigate the damage.”

“And you did a mighty fine job,” she returns sincerely. “Don’t downplay your efforts, Hope.”

His answering smile is wan but appreciative. “Thanks, Light.”

She lets go of his shoulder and resumes walking, prompting him to do likewise. “Healing was your strongest suit, but you also packed a serious punch when the occasion called for it.” A particularly noteworthy example springs to mind, where the surprise that had awaited them in the Aggra’s Pasture was superseded by the potency of Hope’s spellcasting arsenal. “Remember the Ochu and its pesky little minions? You didn’t defeat so much as _nuked_ the lot of them.”

“Ah, that.” A sheepish expression overtakes her companion’s face. “It was a little overkill, I guess. But they were really getting on my nerves. Besides, you, Snow and Fang had inhaled too much pollen. I had to end the battle quickly, before things got worse.”

“That salvo of Firaga spells was something else,” she murmurs, her vision misting over with the recollection of exploding plant matter and inhuman screeches of agony. “Certainly rivalled some of PSICOM’s best artillery. If the rest of the Pulse wildlife had seen it, they’d have known not to mess with you.”

“Yes, but that would’ve made everything too easy, wouldn’t it?

Their conversation continues down this vein as they weave through several more streets, eventually segueing to the difficulties of surviving the Pulse wilderness. This then segues to the much larger difficulties of colonisation, which ties into the multitude of problems humanity faced upon Cocoon’s collapse. Here, Lightning finds herself listening more and contributing less as Hope delves into the logistical challenges involved, something she had overlooked in lieu of watching her loved ones and the same thing that he had devoted his entire life to solving.

The deactivation of the fal’Cie, which had cut off the luxuries of civilisation overnight, meant that Cocoon was no longer a illusory paradise. However, generations upon generations of ingrained fear was hard to dispel, and people were reluctant to venture into the great unknown beneath them. Said reluctance was soon cured by the threat of impending starvation. Without the light-giving Phoenix and crop plantation overseers like Carbuncle, food production came to a standstill. This necessitated the relocation of agriculture facilities to Pulse, which in turn necessitated the securement of safe zones. As military powers were needed to keep the hostile wildlife (and hysterical members of society) in check, this solidified their presence in the provisional government.

“Meanwhile, we had to deal with the energy crisis,” Hope exposits, his gaze absently roving over the rounded walls of a nearby amphitheatre. He and Lightning have now entered the district zone, where the terraces of the lower deck give way to level ground and geometric formations of multi-storey buildings. “For several weeks, we lived in the literal dark ages. Around three-quarters of Cocoon’s energy came from the Euride Gorge geothermal power plant. After Kujata deactivated, some rewiring had to be done before the systems could be brought back online again.

“Even then, we were only able to run the plant at suboptimal capacity. There wasn’t enough output to sustain the entire populace, so we had to ration it very carefully. As you might expect, residential homes were last on the priority list. Scheduled blackouts became a constant for the following three years.”

She lines up Hope’s description with the remembered vision of his dingy neighbourhood and grimaces. “I imagine many people weren’t happy about that.”

“It triggered the initial exodus to Pulse. Not that the living conditions down there were better. It took a while to lay down the necessary infrastructure, so most people had to make do without modern facilities in the meantime. Not to mention plumbing electricity down the pillar was quite inefficient, so we reserved that strictly for industrial activity. Fortunately, that’s when we stumbled upon a nearby surface deposit of coal.”

The word is not familiar to her, though Lightning surmises it must be some kind of mineable resource. “What’s coal?”

“It’s a combustible rock formed by the fossilisation of plant matter,” Hope explains, creating a rock-shaped space between his hands for emphasis. “This process takes millions of years. That’s why we never found any on Cocoon. Cocoon’s existence only dates back several thousand years, whereas Pulse is much, much older.”

“Hmm. So you burn this stuff,” she begins, drawing on her long-buried textbook understanding of how power generation works, “and it churns out electricity using the same boiler-turbine mechanism as the Euride Gorge plant?”

He gives her an encouraging nod. “That’s right. We modified that technology and used it to set up our first coal-fired power plant. It took us three years, but once the plant was in place, we were able to do so much more. Like build the Gran Elevator, and expand the small settlement on Pulse into a fully functioning city. We also set up more plants until we had enough energy for our needs, and then some.”

“What happened to the Euride Gorge plant? Is it still in use?”

“No, we eventually decommissioned it,” he replies. “It didn’t become apparent until after Kujata was gone, but a lot of magic went into maintaining the plant. Having physics-defying powers allows you to hand-wave a great many engineering flaws.” This comes out in somewhat bitter tones, accompanied by a shake of his head. “In the end, corrosion and heat stress took their toll, and many of the processes became unstable. I’m still astounded that we got it to run for as long as it did. Now, coal is our main source of power.”

“How much of this stuff do you need to power a city?” she asks, curious at the implications of this switchover. “One say, the size of Palumpolum?”

Her companion cups his chin thoughtfully, and she finds herself needing to slow down her pace to match his. “Let’s see. Palumpolum has a current population of around six-hundred thousand. At ten thousand kilowatt hours per resident household, which comprises of four people on average, that would roughly translate to—” he pauses for a few seconds, wintergreen eyes swivelling back and forth in concentration, “—one billion five-hundred million kilowatt hours per year. Our coal-powered plants have a conversion efficiency of forty percent, and the thermal energy content of coal is some six-thousand kilowatt hours per ton. All up, it would take approximately—” there is another pause, “—six hundred and twenty-five thousand tons of coal to power Palumpolum for a year. That’s discounting industrial activity, which would add a few hundred thousand tons.”

She lets out an awed breath at his mathematical prowess, then another at the enormity of the solution required. “In other words, _a lot_.”

“Yeah. This will present a problem further down the track, as coal is a finite resource. Furthermore, it comes with numerous adverse impacts. Mining renders the land unusable, and the emissions and waste products from burning coal are serious environmental pollutants and health hazards.”

“If there are so many drawbacks,” she contests, vexed by her lack of knowledgeability on the subject, “why use coal, then?”

“Because we don’t have a better alternative,” returns Hope smoothly, as though he has handed out this answer many times before. “All those millennia of coddling by fal’Cie hasn’t done mankind any favours in the imagination department. The technology with which our coal-powered plants operate is derivative, based on what is already true and tested. It will take years, if not decades, to develop something different and more importantly, _viable_. 

He fixes her with a steady gaze, spreading his hands as he speaks. “Therefore coal is what we need right now. It’s easy to mine, usable in its raw form and can be processed in large quantities. It’s also extremely abundant.” 

_It certainly won’t stay that way if you’re going through several hundred thousand tons of it_ per _city_ , she muses. “But wouldn’t it run out at some point?”

“Yes. Only a few surface deposits have been unearthed so far, but we’re constantly on the lookout for deeper veins. If our estimates prove correct, there should be enough coal reserves to last us another three hundred years – assuming our current rate of energy consumption.”

“That’s well beyond your lifetime,” Lightning points out.

Hope responds with a small, patient smile. “The Academy wouldn’t be quite so effective if we didn’t espouse long-term views. Ultimately, we’ll transition to other types of energy, ideally of the renewable kind. We have solar, wind and hydroelectric options, but they tend towards the smaller scale end of things. However, there _is_ another option that has caught our attention: chaos energy. That’s one of the reasons why the Academy is so interested in paradoxes; we’re seeking the means to harness their unique time-distorting properties.”

Lightning feels her eyes widen; now _that_ is a use for paradoxes that she hasn’t considered before. “Any progress on that front?”

“It’s slow, thanks to chaos energy being inherently destructive,” he elaborates as a spark enters his eyes, further animating his speech and accompanying gesticulations. “Essentially, it acts like a souped-up universal catalyst, promoting faster rates of reaction and decay of everything it comes into contact with. We’ve placed generators inside paradox bubbles and watched them overload our capacitors with their accelerated output, but at the cost of rapid deterioration. Engineering entropy-resistant materials is a hot topic among Academy researchers nowadays.”

Having landed upon his field of expertise, Hope proceeds to regale her with tales of the latest Academy inventions. Despite much of the terminology going over her head, Lightning finds it quite enjoyable to listen to his chatter. For one, his voice is very pleasant: a mellow tenor several notes deeper than his teenaged version, and one that embodies all of his adult grace. However, what truly captivates her is the passion that underlies his words. It doesn’t stem from love of his work – though he undoubtedly relishes the technical aspects of it – but rather his namesake: the _hope_ that humanity will prevail. This idealism, once a mere seedling uncovered by the trials of being l’Cie, had flourished into a strong charismatic presence, gathering those around him to share the dream and make it reality.

To say that Lightning is impressed would be an understatement. Now she understands why the Academy had elected Hope to become one of its leaders, despite his youth and inexperience. She also understands why so many have attempted to forge a deeper connection with him (though to no avail). Because she finds herself drawn to him in the same way. Seeing that drive – that _fervour_ – that burns in his eyes makes her want to partake of it too, however her self-preservation instincts scream at her to shy away.

By the time they decide to take a break, the sun is hovering in the northeast, having completed a third of its heavenward circuit. She and Hope are currently strolling through a plaza, the features of which include of a large circular fountain and its accompaniment of stone benches. Lightning promptly settles into the nearest bench, beckoning Hope to take the spot beside her. However hard he’d tried to conceal it, the falter in his gait had become more pronounced with each passing hour. So it is with a grateful smile that he accepts her invitation, collapsing next to her in a rather inelegant plop.

Now that they have reestablished ground and some measure of familiarity with each other, the silence that settles between them is quite comfortable.

Left idle, Lightning’s mind automatically revisits the conversation she’d just held with Hope. In retrospect, that was the lengthiest conversation she’d had with anyone, and indisputably the most enjoyable. She has a better grasp of who he is now, though many questions about him still remain unanswered. Nevertheless, one thing has crystallised from their exchange:

_She really likes this older Hope._

This may seem like a superfluous statement, given the ease of their partnership back in their l’Cie days. However, the deep affection and protectiveness that she came to feel for him were born of circumstance, of her pouring her sisterly inadequacies onto the nearest person who, by sheer dumb luck, happened to accommodate them. It wasn’t because she had automatically gravitated to him. In fact, his pitiful first impression would have eliminated him from her associate candidate pool altogether.

The same cannot be said now, where she is hard-pressed to resist his pull. And were she completely honest with herself, she would take it one step further and admit to finding him _attractive_ as well.

Sure, his grown-up good looks contribute in that respect, but it amounts to more than aesthetics and the primal magnetism of opposite sexes. As the stressful setting of their reunion transitioned to something more relaxed, so have the opportunities – to experience firsthand the true appeal of his personality – multiplied. Exploring the various sides to him had been an adventure of its own. From the witty playmate who likes cake and fashion disasters and the colour orange, to the Academy Director who speaks intelligently and passionately about world issues, to the endearing worrywart who brings his concerns for her wellbeing into their shared reminiscences, Hope Estheim calls to her like a beacon of inexplicable allure.

Then there’s the matter of his gaze and his touch, which had sent thrills through her even as she’d backed away...

In a hypothetical scenario, where Lightning lives a life of relative normalcy – like the one before the Purge – and frequents bars in search of male company… Truth be told, intellectual scientist types aren’t her normal fare; oftentimes it is the masculine, self-possessed exuder of raw sexual energy who catches her attention. Nevertheless, had she encountered Hope there, she would _definitely_ have considered taking him home.

But normalcy has not been her reality for several hundred years, and will likely never be again. Not to mention Hope is the farthest thing from a random fuckable stranger.

No, Hope is so much _more_ than that. Once her pupil-cum-partner and anchor to morality, he has become her adult equal, unexpected companion and, given his candidness towards her and her own newfound appreciation of his attractiveness, she-doesn’t-know-what-anymore. But whatever form their relationship may take, one fact remains unchanged: Hope is _beloved_ to her. She shouldn’t despoil this precious thing between them with fanciful notions of what-if’s and what-could-be’s. Instead, she should be focussing on the goal of _getting him home_ , which, against all good sense, had failed to take centre stage among her priorities.

Really, what _was_ she thinking? So much for her earlier criticism of his flirtatious behaviour. Who’s the one at fault for entertaining amorous thoughts now?

So engrossed is Lightning in her self-chastisement that she doesn’t notice Hope’s unusual state until he pitches forward – once, then again in more alarming fashion. His posture is lax and his eyes have drifted shut. Is he—?

“Hope?”

He startles, clambering back to wakefulness with noticeable difficulty. “Y-yes?”

“Are you falling asleep?”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes blearily. “I didn’t realise I was so tired.”

She dismisses his apology with a shake of her head. “Don’t be. I just find it strange,” she adds, frowning. “Sleep shouldn’t be a requirement once you’re in Valhalla. There’s some kind of magic here that overrides basic biological needs.”

“Maybe it’s just force of h-hab—” he cuts himself off with a wide yawn. “ _Habit_. Or my body’s still recovering and requires more rest. You don’t happen to know a place we could crash? As inviting as this bench feels right now, I don’t think it’ll do good things for my spine.”

“I _do_ know a place.” Consulting her mental map of the citadel, she deduces that their destination lies several kilometres southwest of their current location. “In fact, we’ve been heading towards it the whole time.”

“Is it far?”

“Given your current state, I wouldn’t make you hoof it.” She rises to her feet, materialising a rose-shaped crystal from her breast at the same time. “I’ll call Odin.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think! By way of comment, of course. ;-)


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